


the nature of a misunderstanding

by vtforpedro



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, References to Prostitution, Second-Hand Embarrassment, Thorin Has No Sense Of Direction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-12 17:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 33,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11166282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtforpedro/pseuds/vtforpedro
Summary: In which there is a severe misunderstanding, a dwarf fallen on hard times, and a hobbit that wants to make it right.





	1. Chapter 1

The day has been long and grueling, filled with endless stacks of parchment paper, deeds and details and payments for properties. It is not uncommon to have a day such as this, the properties do have to be tended to, but gardening, cooking and writing are so much more enjoyable. So while this is not exactly hard work, it is tedious and a brew of ale seems like a just reward.

Unfortunately he has run out of ale and cannot purchase a barrel until tomorrow when the markets are opened. So Bilbo Baggins decides to indulge himself a little and leaves the cozy comforts of Bag End behind for a while, venturing out into the cool evening air. He will go to the Green Dragon and perhaps be sociable for once. He must do that now and then to keep up appearances, he remembers, and though he is not looking forward to the walk back home when he is a few cups deep, he puts on his best smile and arrives at the inn in hardly any time at all.

Bilbo enters and takes a short moment to observe who is enjoying the freely flowing ale. There are Boffins and Tooks, of course, and a few Brandybucks but hardly any Bagginses. It is not altogether surprising and Bilbo smiles and waves at a few of his neighbors before heading to the bar. He takes up a free stool and says hello to the Brandybuck lad sitting next to him and after Tolman Cotton walks by they both have fresh ales in hand and make a rousing toast between themselves.

He chits and he chats with anyone that will come and say hello and fine-tunes his reputation as well as he can. He doesn’t get roped into any singing or dancing, excusing himself with an achy back but he does recite a lewd poem and smiles when his fellow hobbits crow and laugh.

After a few mugs of ale he is feeling sufficiently full of cheer and thinks about turning in before moonshine is introduced, as it no doubt will be the higher the moon rises. He is debating one last ale, gazing into his mug, when someone sits next to him on the last remaining stool at the end of the bar.

He lifts his gaze to welcome the newcomer and freezes at the sight that greets him. It is no hobbit.

A dwarf.

The most handsome dwarf he has ever had the privilege of seeing, he has to say, and promptly snaps his mouth shut as Tolman comes along.

“‘ello there, Master Dwarf,” the barman greets. “What can I do for you on this good evenin’? We have the finest ale in the Westfarthing or a meal of stew and bread, if you’re lookin’ for food.”

“An ale and the meal,” the dwarf says in a deep, throaty voice, one that sends Bilbo’s toes curling against the footrests of his stool.

Bilbo is staring and cannot find it in himself to stop. He wishes he was not so close to him so that he could get more of an eyeful and regrets that line of thought the moment it comes. It is when a blue gaze meets his that he starts, making an odd noise, and turns quickly away from the dwarf, cheeks flaring with heat now that he knows he has been caught.

But perhaps the dwarf can forgive him. Dwarves are so rarely in the Shire, preferring their mountains and far less wandering. Bilbo is sure he has not seen a dwarf in a decade and that was only because a few had come to trade in the markets one summer.

The dwarf sitting next to him appears to be alone. He is as broad as most dwarves and much taller than Bilbo, even while sitting but there is something odd about him that Bilbo can’t place. He has seen his long, wavy black hair and the forget-me-not blue eyes and his sharp angular nose but he is missing something.

He thinks about saying hello but the fellow is sitting hunched in on himself and screams of someone that does not wish to be disturbed. Bilbo is hesitant to do so, as he knows how it feels, so he chances a peek out of the corner of his eye.

The dwarf is staring down at his mug of ale and does not so much as twitch until Tolman comes back around the bar with a bowl of stew and a plate of bread and a decently-sized chunk of soft cheese. He sets the meal in front of the dwarf and bustles off to greet a Brandybuck couple that are entering the inn.

Bilbo watches as the dwarf grabs his bread, tears into it with surprising ferocity and stuffs a piece into his mouth, chewing hard enough to surely crack a tooth or three.

 _He’s thin,_ Bilbo’s mind supplies, and he is taken aback. That is what is wrong, what seems so strange about this dwarf. He may be broad but he is thinner than most, with a flat stomach and a narrow waist, which are visible even under his sturdy clothing. Sturdy but well-worn and patched in many places. Bilbo looks at his hair and notes that it is in need of a good washing; it is lank and looks a little oily and he wonders when the poor fellow was last able to take a hot bath.

He has clearly come across hard times and Bilbo’s natural instinct is to offer help but he knows it might result in a black eye, so he refrains, and contents himself with hoping that good fortune goes the dwarf’s way.

Then blue eyes are upon his and he blinks once, then twice, before he realizes that he is now being stared at in return. Bilbo jerks, his elbow flying off the bar, and makes a surprised noise as he steadies his empty mug before it too can flee from him. He turns hastily away and apologies are bubbling up in his throat but before he can blurt them out, Tolman swoops in to rescue him. Whether it is on purpose or simply that the barman has good timing, Bilbo can’t say.

“You’re a long way from home, Master Dwarf,” he says, wiping down a mug with a clean rag. “From the Blue Mountains, ye are? I recognize the leather work nowadays, what with most of your kind stoppin’ here on their travels, what little travelin’ they do. Headin’ to Bree?”

The dwarf is silent for a moment and it is a painful one at that before he finally nods. “Aye,” he says quite simply and with a finality in his tone.

Tolman either ignores this or does not care. “Aye, aye,” he says, setting the mug aside and grabbing another one to dry. “What’s takin’ ye there? Lookin’ fer work?”

Another beat of silence, then a nod. “Aye. To look for work,” the dwarf says, as if this is expected of him.

“And what sort of work do ye do?”

“Anything that I can get,” the dwarf answers gruffly, his hand tightening around the bread.

Tolman nods. “Well, best of luck to ye,” he says, perhaps sensing that this dwarf is not one for chatter. He turns and goes to greet a wandering Bracegirdle that has just entered.

Bilbo taps his fingers against the bar and thinks quickly. The dwarf goes back to shoveling food into his mouth and Bilbo is tempted to chide him until he slows down or surely he will be sick. He refrains and blinks to himself, a dreadful stirring climbing up from his gut toward his throat. He must, he _must_ say something to this dwarf, and he hasn’t any idea why.

“Any sort of work?” he finally blurts and sounds rather different from himself. It is a strangled, awkward voice that leaves his throat, certainly not his own, and he immediately blushes and opens his mouth to apologize but the dwarf has stiffened and is peering at him again.

They stare at each other in silence and when Bilbo is truly fit to burst with a thousand things he’d like to say, the dwarf nods in a jerky sort of way.

“Aye,” he says, low and hoarse. “Anything.”

Bilbo nods, relief hitting him like a cool rain on a hot summer day. “Oh,” he breathes out, his heart beginning to calm down from its wild staccato. “What skills do you have, if I may ask?”

“Many,” the dwarf answers, setting his food aside and looking more pale than he had only a moment ago. “I am a blacksmith by trade but I have not been able to find work as such.”

“I see,” Bilbo says, still tapping his fingers against the bar, trying to spend off some of his nerves. “We don’t require a blacksmith often but good Angus is almost always available when we need him, so you’re not likely to find any work here. I suppose that’s why you’re heading to Bree.” The dwarf inclines his head and Bilbo hums. “But if you can’t find that sort of work, at a forge or whatnot… are you willing to do other kinds of work?”

The dwarf is silent again and his eyes are hard and ablaze, as if he is debating answering the question harshly or not. Bilbo flounders, wondering what he has said wrong but he has an idea and wants to see if it can come to fruition. He wishes to help this dwarf, at least in some small way, if he can.

Finally he gives a slow nod. “I am,” he says shortly. “What did you have in mind, Master Hobbit?”

“Oh, well, erm,” Bilbo says, furrowing his brow and frowning. “I do suppose I have a few things in mind, if you’re well-suited to them. I’ve heard things about dwarves, you know.”

That earns him an arched eyebrow and he hastens to continue, “That you lot are good with your hands and the like.” He supposes that doesn’t sound much better and lets out a sigh, half tempted to pinch himself. The dwarf remains silent either way, staring at him, openly wary. Bilbo can’t blame him.

“Well, anyway, I do know a few ways that can earn you a bit of coin for the road to Bree, if you’re interested.”

“I will not do everything,” the dwarf says abruptly and so fiercely that Bilbo gapes at him.

“O-Oh, well, of course not, but,” Bilbo starts, then stops. “I don’t expect you to be able to do everything, but, ah, I suppose we’ll work out the specifics. I’m sure you’re quite talented. Like I said, I’ve heard much about dwarves. Not that I often hear about dwarves or anything, but… oh bother.” He sighs, wishing desperately for another ale, whatever he has in his veins clearly not doing him any favors right now.

The dwarf is watching him with a queer expression and Bilbo grumbles a little, trying to think of something to say that will make him look less like a nutter.

“How much will you pay?” the dwarf asks and Bilbo is relieved.

“Well,” he says, thinking. “I’m not entirely sure of everything I want. Do you have a set rate when it comes to these things? I thought that I might charge you by the amount of work you do. Or… or how many things you do. I’m not sure, what’s the best way to go about this? I’m afraid I don’t hire often.”

The dwarf frowns at him. “By quantity then. We can further discuss this when we are alone,” he says, his eyes darting around the general area.

Bilbo nods and taps the side of his nose. “Of course. Best to discuss business elsewhere,” he agrees, then smiles, turning toward the dwarf, extending his hand. “Pardon me, I haven’t even introduced myself. Bilbo Baggins.”

The dwarf looks at his hand for a long, heavy moment before he meets Bilbo’s eye again. He bows his head but does not take his hand and says in a gruff tone, “Thorin, at your service.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo repeats, a little miffed that his hand has not been shaken. He pats his thigh instead and watches Thorin closely, feeling rather wrong-footed now. “Well, erm. It’s good to meet you, Thorin.”

Thorin does not say anything and turns back to his supper, beginning to polish the rest of it off in the same vigorous manner as before. Bilbo is certainly feeling off-kilter now and like he has missed something important in this conversation but he can’t think of what that is. He has hired a complete stranger - a dwarf, at that - to do work for him, at his home, and he hasn’t a clue what he was thinking. What if Thorin tries to cheat him or does shoddy work? He might have said he was a blacksmith but Bilbo can hardly know that for sure and he is beginning to think that he has made a grave mistake.

“Are- are you staying at the inn?” he asks, his voice higher in pitch than it normally is.

Thorin pushes his plate away and does not look at him. “No,” he says. “I had planned to make camp not far from here.”

Bilbo supposes he can’t afford a room and suddenly remembers why he wished to help Thorin in the first place. “I see,” he says, wondering if Thorin would take it poorly if he offered to pay him first. Besides being a silly thing to do, which he knows, he thinks that Thorin’s pride would not suffer the insult well. “I live around the Bywater, up at the top of the hill, if you’d like to come by in the morning.”

“You do not wish for me to join you tonight?” Thorin asks, as if he is surprised by this, and Bilbo chokes on air.

“Tonight?” he shrills, then looks quickly around. No one is looking his way and he sighs, glancing back at Thorin. “W-Well, er, I hadn’t planned on you starting work tonight. I mean, it’s a bit late, isn’t it? And we’ve both had an ale or a few ales in my case, so perhaps this sort of work is better suited for the beginning of a day?”

Thorin is staring at him again and Bilbo tries not to scowl, feeling a bit bothered suddenly.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to take a guest room so you can begin your work early,” he says, knowing this is dangerous and foolish but not wanting to be looked at as if he has something wrong with him anymore. “I’m a good cook, I can make you breakfast in the morning, though we won’t consider it part of your payment.”

Thorin appears to think this over and his expression is strange to Bilbo. He looks torn and half-angry and Bilbo doesn’t know what to make of him. He hopes that he is not dangerous; Thorin could easily break him in half, though any dwarf could he knows, even the thin ones. But would Thorin sabotage his chance at earning coin honestly? Something in his heart tells him that he wouldn’t but he still does not understand why Thorin looks the way he does now.

“Very well,” Thorin says after another moment. He looks at Bilbo but somewhere over his shoulder and not directly in his eye. “If it is not considered part of the payment,” he agrees in a firm tone.

“Of course not,” Bilbo says. He sits, quiet, thinking things through, then nods. “Well then, let’s be off. I suspect you’ll be working hard tomorrow and I’m sure you would appreciate a good night of rest.” He stands and waves at Tolman.

Thorin says nothing but stands, towering over Bilbo, grabbing a pack from the floor and slinging it over his shoulder and then they set off through the inn and exit it after letting Bilbo shout out goodbyes to his friends and neighbors.

They do not speak for the first leg of the journey, circling the Bywater, and it is stilted and awkward. Thorin walks like a dwarf, which is to say intimidatingly, and Bilbo tries to step as confidently as he can to match the steps but he suspects he is failing. The ale in his blood is beginning to wear off and the cool night air is helping but he still does not know what to say to Thorin. He is glad it is at least late so his neighbors don't see that he’s taking a dwarf into his home; surely that sort of talk would follow him for months to come. When they no doubt see Thorin working hard on the smial, there will be far less rumors.

Bilbo points toward the hill when they are close enough to see it. “My home is at the top there,” he says. “Bag End. My father built it for my mother when they married. They’re gone now, so it’s just myself, which some of my less cordial family members think is unrespectable. It’s hardly my fault that my father built such a large smial but it is in fact mine and I will be staying there until the end of my days.”

Thorin does not say anything, merely continues to walk alongside Bilbo, and he begins to feel foolish for opening his mouth. He does not try another conversation.

It feels as if it takes ages but they do finally trudge up the hill and then Bilbo is showing Thorin past his gate and into his home. It is only lit by a few oil lanterns and Bilbo hastens to the sitting room to get a fire going for some light. He tells Thorin to sit, if he’d like, and finds himself unsurprised when he chooses to remain standing in the middle of the room with his pack still over his back.

Bilbo ensures that his home is well lit and then joins Thorin standing in the sitting room. He pats his thighs and considers the situation before he points his finger in the air.

“Tea?”

Thorin shakes his head.

Bilbo holds in a sigh. “I suppose you must be tired and I am a bit as well. Perhaps we should discuss business in the morning over breakfast,” he suggests. Thorin inclines his head and Bilbo hums. “Let me show you to your room, then. The sheets are freshly laundered. I’ll get a fire going. The nights are beginning to cool considerably, aren’t they?” He motions for Thorin to follow and sets off down the hall.

He somehow loses Thorin around a corner and has to double back to find him again and smiles a little at the confusion evident on his face as he gazes around. He leads him to his best bedroom and shows him inside, hastening to the hearth to get a fire started.

Thorin sets his pack on the bed and stands near to it, watching Bilbo as he goes about his business.

Once the fire has roared to life, Bilbo turns to look at Thorin and takes in his appearance. He debates offering his bath but wonders if Thorin would find it insulting, no matter how clear it is that he could use one. He supposes he will be washing his sheets after Thorin has gone either way and decides against it.

“Well, ah. Please do make yourself at home. Is there anything that I can get you before we turn in?” he asks, peering around the room. It is filled with the comforts of home and he is proud of it and is pleased when Thorin shakes his head again.

It seems his houseguest is truly not one for speaking much so Bilbo waves. “I normally like to lie-in but I’ll be up with the sun, I imagine. If you are up before me, you are most welcome to the kitchen for tea and the like. So, erm. Goodnight!” he says, then turns and hurries out of the room, closing the door behind himself.

He rocks forward on his toes once he is in the hallway, looking back at the door. He listens for a moment and soon hears movement inside, nodding to himself. He goes down to his bedroom and changes out of his day clothes, getting into his pajamas and patchwork robe. Once he has ventured into the washroom and scrubbed his face clean, he peers down the hallway toward Thorin’s door, looking at the golden light from under it. He hopes that Thorin is making himself comfortable but at the same time hopes that he is not planning on robbing him.

Bilbo feels guilty for thinking this and even more for thinking about what he has heard about dwarves. He never paid any mind to rumors as he hardly knew any dwarves himself but the less savory things are coming back to him now that he has one under his roof. He is unsettled by this and goes into his bedroom, locking the door, which he is not sure he has done since he was a tween.

He gets into bed, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling, wondering if he will sleep or not. He feels wide awake and decides that this will be a night of little rest indeed.

——

Bilbo stares blearily at the window and tries not to groan aloud. It is dreadfully early, much earlier than he normally wakes, and he has had an equally dreadful night of sleep. He is fairly certain he woke every hour, any creaking throughout his smial had been Thorin wandering around, stealing all of his valuables, and his newfound paranoia has done his bones no favors.

He decides a good cup of tea is in order and stumbles out of bed, his muscles sore and heavy. As he curses his foolish heart for aching at the sight of a thin dwarf, he changes, then leaves his bedroom and wanders into the hall, looking quickly at Thorin’s door. There is no more light from under it and he hopes that Thorin is sleeping soundly. He ventures down to his kitchen and gets a fire going, dawn’s blue light just adequate enough for him to be able to see what he’s doing.

It is not long before he has his kettle over the fire. He watches the sun rise for a time before he ventures into the pantry and begins to inspect its contents for breakfast. He decides on sausages, eggs, tomatoes and toast, thinking it will be a nice, hearty breakfast for Thorin before he begins his work on the smial.

In his waking hours in the middle of the night Bilbo had come up with a solid list for Thorin and hopes that he will be up to the tasks. It should keep him busy for the full day and then Bilbo can feed and bathe him before sending him off on his way to Bree with a pocketful of coin. He is feeling rather proud of himself, despite his vague unease about it all still, and carries what he needs for breakfast into his kitchen.

There is the sound of wood groaning under heavy boots and Bilbo freezes, glancing at the archway. Thorin appears hesitantly around the corner, looking at him with a guarded expression, dressed as he was the night before.

They watch each other for a time, then Bilbo shakes himself. “Good morning,” he says, fetching the kettle from the fire. “I was just about to start on breakfast. It’s a bit early but I thought that it’d be good for us both. Have a seat, please, if you’d like, and I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

Thorin stays standing for a bit, then finally enters the kitchen and sits stiffly at the table, his back rigid and his eyes stuck on Bilbo.

He tries not to feel bothered by it but really can’t help it and goes about pouring tea with lightly trembling hands. He pushes Thorin the jar of honey and then bounces on his toes, trying to think of something to say to get Thorin to open his mouth; he’s fairly certain he hasn’t spoken since he agreed to work on the smial.

“How did you sleep?” he settles on, thinking this is safe.

Thorin inclines his head and says nothing and Bilbo is beginning to feel even more bothered.

“Well, ah. I was thinking sausages and eggs for our first breakfast,” he says, turning back to his counter to begin that task at least.

Thorin is quiet still but eventually he does shift and Bilbo hears a quiet, “First breakfast?”

“Of course,” he says, glad that Thorin has not suddenly turned mute overnight. “What would you like for second breakfast? I have scones and muffins, plenty of jams and jellies, and quite a few different cheeses.”

“That is…” Thorin trails off and Bilbo patiently waits for him as he prepares sausages to be fried. “How many breakfasts do you eat?”

“Oh, just the two,” Bilbo answers, smiling a little to himself. “I suppose you dwarves might not eat as much as us hobbits. We have seven meals, you know. You’re more than welcome to partake with me, as long as you’re here. Plenty of fuel for the work you’ll be doing, which I have thought about through the night. We’ll eat and then discuss it.”

He sees Thorin fingering his tea cup and wonders if it’s a nervous gesture.

“I have been on the road for two weeks,” Thorin says after another bout of silence. “I should bathe before we… before we begin.”

Bilbo looks at him and blinks a few times, frowning. “You’d like to bathe first? Are you quite sure? I imagine you’ll get a little filthy,” he says, trying not to eye Thorin’s hair too closely. “Not that I would mind if you bathed first or, or after as well, but, I… well. It makes sense to wait, does it not?”

“It is not for my benefit,” Thorin says and sounds a little annoyed, which is perplexing.

“Right,” Bilbo says, and is fairly confused. He isn’t planning on being close enough to benefit from a freshly-washed Thorin and wonders if this is a dwarvish preference. “Well, you can bathe whenever you’d like. I have a lovely copper tub. I may have to partake in a good scrubbing myself before the end of the day.”

It goes quiet again and Bilbo simply concentrates on making breakfast before he can truly feel discomfited. He can hardly blame Thorin for not being a talkative sort and perhaps he’s feeling a little out of place as well, so Bilbo tries to forget his ire. Food is ultimately the best solution for that and he enjoys himself as he always does making breakfast.

It is not much later when he sets a plate in front of Thorin, then spoons a good many sausages and fried eggs onto it, as well as toast and his sweet heirloom tomatoes from the garden. He watches from the corner of his eye for a reaction and sees the hunger evident on Thorin’s face. He’s glad of it and serves himself, then takes a seat at the table and motions for Thorin to eat.

They do so in relative silence; Bilbo does not wish to push his guest into conversation and contents himself with watching Thorin shovel food into his mouth. He is beginning to worry that he has not made enough, despite it being a respectable hobbit breakfast, and mumbles about wanting something sweet to end his meal, fetching the plateful of blueberry scones. He sets them in the middle of his table and nibbles on one, waiting. Thorin does not disappoint and snatches up a scone, which he inhales in short order.

Bilbo is impressed but not altogether surprised and feels his heart ache when he looks at Thorin’s shoulders, which are surely not as filled in as they should be.

They finish their scones and Bilbo pats his belly, peering openly at Thorin, who looks at him and swiftly averts his gaze.

“You do not want me to bathe first.”

Bilbo frowns, wondering at this line of conversation again. “That is- that is certainly up to you, Thorin. I daresay I don’t mind. Do you prefer to be clean before?”

Thorin’s brow furrows. “Aye,” he says, as if this is something Bilbo should not be questioning.

He flounders for a moment. “Well, ah. Then I suppose I shall show you to the bath,” he says haltingly, standing from the table and gesturing vaguely.

Thorin stands and Bilbo tries to ignore his significant height - he must be quite tall, even among his own race. Bilbo is fairly certain other dwarves have all been around his own height, when he has seen them before. When Thorin has weight on he must make for an even more imposing sight and Bilbo wishes he could feed him until he is filled out. He leads Thorin to his washroom and hopes, again, that better fortune will come to him.

He shows Thorin his tub and fetches him a few fresh towels, then leaves him to it. He has a feeling it’ll be a good long while until Thorin reemerges, considering his hair alone.

Bilbo cleans the dishes and tidies up his kitchen, thinking about him.

He wonders if he has a family somewhere. Why is he traveling alone away from his mountain halls? Bilbo remembers that Tolman had said he was from the Blue Mountains - Ered Luin is a name he knows and he wonders what type of life it is, living there. Perhaps Thorin has a family he is trying to feed and could not find work, not even in a place that Bilbo suspects needs blacksmiths. Or perhaps he has no one and no home and is a wanderer. There is a reason he is so thin and Bilbo wonders if he can ask him, if Thorin would ever open up to him and tell him why he is so far from a home of his own.

Bilbo knows that he is privileged, even for a hobbit. His father had worked hard in his life, becoming a landlord and tending to the properties as well as he could. The Baggins family name was respectable, of course, but Bungo’s wealth had been the result of his own tenacity.

He has never had to work all that hard to keep up with Bungo’s legacy. He may complain about paperwork but it is something he can do with very little trouble; coin flows freely still and he can indulge himself in his own ventures, whether they be writing or mapmaking or simply baking. He has never known a hard life, a life on the road, or starvation. He knows nothing of what Thorin has gone through and begins to feel infinitely out of place in his own home, much to his consternation.

He is more aware of his fineries and comforts than he has been in a while and wonders if Thorin resents him at all for it. He pushes that thought aside, knowing it will do him no good, and takes a fresh cup of tea to his sitting room, taking up residence in his armchair, grabbing the latest book he is reading.

It is indeed some time before the washroom door opens again and he hears the footfalls of his guest. He turns to his doorway and watches as Thorin appears, lifting his hand and waving to catch his attention. Blue eyes settle on his and Bilbo’s breath catches a little.

Thorin certainly looks better. His hair is damp still but it looks luxuriously soft. He is dressed in different clothes but they are still the same type of sturdy leathers as before and Bilbo hopes they are at least clean.

“Do you, ah… do you feel better?” he asks, feeling a little silly, but Thorin had been so adamant about a bath.

Thorin inclines his head, his hands at his sides tightening into fists and does not enter the sitting room. “Thank you,” he says, like an afterthought and it is quite stiff.

“You’re welcome,” Bilbo says, politeness coming as easy as it always does. “Will you join me?” He motions at the armchair across from his.

“I would like to get started so I can be back on the road by this evening,” Thorin says. “If you are amenable.”

“Oh, of course! Of course. I do hope we’re done before then, I had quite a few things in mind,” Bilbo says, standing from his chair, tossing his book aside. He approaches Thorin and rocks forward on his toes as he watches him. “We may have to borrow a few items from my neighbor, I’m afraid I’m quite ill-prepared.”

Thorin looks pale and almost as if he is in pain, but he nods and gazes somewhere over Bilbo’s shoulder again. “The bedroom?” he asks, quiet, and there is something heavy in it.

“The bedroom?” Bilbo repeats, blinking in surprise. “The bedroom! Why on earth- no no, the bedroom is hardly the place to begin.” He eyes Thorin a little and motions toward the hall. “I was thinking we could begin outside. Should- should we not discuss payment first and if you’ll even be able to do what I have in mind? Not that I doubt you, of course! But… my list is quite specific.”

Thorin has met his eye now and is looking at him from under his brow. He remains still and quiet for a time, until Bilbo is fidgeting, then nods. “I will not do everything, as I told you evening last,” he says, his voice low. “Ten silvers for each of your… requests.”

Bilbo gapes. “T-Ten silvers? _Ten silvers?”_ he asks, his voice reaching dangerously high levels. “Ten silvers!” he repeats, aghast. “Now- now see here, Thorin, that is quite a lot of coin for what I’m asking for, don’t you think? Is this normally what you might charge?”

Thorin’s face twists and he looks angry suddenly. “You think I am not worth the coin?” he asks and there is a dangerous edge to his tone that does not sit well with Bilbo.

“That is not what I said,” he says, holding up his hands. “I’m sure your work is excellent but- but- ten silvers, why, I’ve never…! I’ve never paid so much, not even for dwarvish work.”

“I am charging less than Menfolk would,” Thorin growls.

Bilbo doubts that but he isn’t sure he feels safe enough to argue the point. “Be that as it may, these are very simple things I’m asking for, Thorin. At least it seems so,” he says, wincing as Thorin’s eyes narrow and his knuckles turn white. “Good gracious. To be fair, I’ve hardly seen any of your work. I am sure you’re up to the task but… oh bother! Fine! Fine, ten silvers, but I expect quite the effort in return!” He puffs himself up a little, holding his finger in the air. “Can we agree to that?”

“You wish to begin outside?” Thorin asks, in lieu of answering, an unsettling harshness to his tone. “I do not wish to conduct our affairs in the public eye.”

Bilbo gapes again. “The- the public eye,” he repeats, lost. “There is hardly anything indecent about- about our- _affairs?_ I will have you know that hiring help is not frowned upon here! Why on earth are you opposed to going outside?”

Thorin stares at him as if he is being particularly foolish. “I do not know how halflings go about their business but I will not be subjected to others’ eyes during a private exchange!” Thorin says, his voice rising.

“A private exchange!” Bilbo trills, holding out his hands helplessly. “Master Dwarf, I have only hired you to- to- to…”

Bilbo trails off and stares, very hard, at Thorin’s glare.

And then it occurs to him just what Thorin is thinking and he inhales sharply, his hands flying to clutch at his chest, and he takes a step back.

“You, you… _you…!_ You think I hired you to…? Oh!” Bilbo cries, pointing at Thorin. “Did you- did you think I- I _propositioned you?”_ he demands shrilly, his cheeks flaring with heat at the very idea. But it suddenly makes _sense_ and he is horrified.

Thorin frowns at him, confusion evident. “You did,” he says, still sounding quite livid and looks as if he is disgusted at the idea of it.

Bilbo feels the floor drop out from underneath him and his heart begins to pump hot, mortified blood through his veins. He is also inexplicably offended. “I most certainly did not!” he shouts, taking another step back. “I would never! Oh, I cannot believe- no wonder you have- _oh!_ I did not hire you as a- as a- a dwarf of the night! That is not the type of hobbit I am! I merely hired you to do handy work around my smial! Why, I never…!”

Thorin has gone deathly pale and his eyes widen a fraction. He is very still and says nothing, staring at Bilbo in a way he has not before and it occurs to him why he has had such trouble looking him in the eye.

Bilbo feels a blush take him from his neck to the points of his ears and continues to stare back at Thorin, his mouth open.

“You,” Thorin starts, then stops. His voice has gone terribly hoarse. “You… did not mean to take me to bed.”

He says it as a statement, not a question, but Bilbo still vigorously shakes his head.

“No!” he says, still piercing. “Of course not! I’ve heard that dwarves are good with their hands- oh bother it all!” He groans. “I meant in a- in a fix-it sort of way! With tools and the like! Fixing pipes or- or sanding and polishing wood! Not in a carnal way! Oh good gracious me, Yavanna’s leaves, I cannot believe-” he abruptly cuts himself off and feels his heart skip a beat.

He refocuses on Thorin and the fight leaves him. “Oh… oh, Thorin,” he whispers, an immense weight falling across his shoulders.

Thorin’s face immediately twists into a snarl. “I do not need your pity,” he spits. “I misread your intentions. That is the end of it.” His tone is harsh but Bilbo can see he is unsettled with the way he shifts on his feet.

Bilbo feels this is very dangerous territory. If he says the wrong thing he is uncertain what Thorin will do but suspects it will not be kind. But now he knows what Thorin has resorted to in order to earn coin and it is clear what he actually thinks of it. Bilbo feels ill and swallows past a dry throat, lifting his hand to run through his hair in distress.

“Thorin,” he says, his voice froggy, and he clears his throat. “I would… I would still like to hire you to help me around my smial-”

“I do not need your pity,” Thorin repeats, stepping closer and looming over the entire sitting room. “Keep it. I will take my leave. I apologize for wasting your time and sitting at your table under false terms.”

Bilbo closes his eyes for a moment, trying to get his bearings. “Thorin,” he says again, looking at him. “You are a blacksmith. Can you or can you not fix things outside of a forge?”

Thorin eyes him warily and says nothing for a time. Finally he gives a jerky nod.

“Then why can you not do that? We’ve had a misunderstanding, yes, but I still need help around the place and you’re already here. Perhaps I won’t pay you ten silvers but I’ll pay a fair and decent price still. Name it. Stay, do your work, I’ll feed you and then- and then you can be on your way. No harm done.”

“You make the offer out of pity and I will have none of it!” Thorin practically roars.

“Oh blast it all, you stubborn dwarf!” Bilbo says, stamping his foot. “Perhaps you need a little pity! If this saves you from doing what I think you’ve been doing just to feed yourself, then accept it! Your pride is not more important than saving yourself from work you obviously do not take pleasure in!”

“What I do is my business and mine alone!”

“You’re right, it is,” Bilbo says, unable to help the frustration he feels. “But you’ve also made me privy to it, whether you’d like that or not. If you can’t do the work or won’t because you’re a stubborn clothead, then fine. It was a pleasure meeting you and good day! I shall simply pay someone else for honest work!”

Thorin glares some more, then abruptly turns on his heel and storms down the hallway. It sounds as if he stomps down to the bedroom he stayed in and then there is a bang of the door a moment later. Thorin appears again, with his pack on his back, but this time he storms past the sitting room, and Bilbo follows him into the hall. He watches as Thorin turns into the parlor, confused, and then furrows his brow as he appears again in the hall.

“Is there no end to this accursed hole?” Thorin says aloud, walking down the hall and in the right direction.

Bilbo huffs as he follows him. “You could stay and get to know it by being my handy-dwarf,” he says tetchily, feeling rather bothered now. “Then you will have a full pocket and belly for the road to Bree.”

Thorin says nothing and reaches the door, opening it with far more aggression than is warranted and stepping out into the cool autumn day. Bilbo follows him, stopping in the doorway, and watches him go.

He wishes to go after him and make him see sense but Thorin is angry and embarrassed and he knows he can’t push him further than he already has. He simply watches him until he disappears down the hill, then closes his door and leans back against it, letting out a long, slow sigh. It’s not his duty to save everyone in Middle Earth and even though his heart goes out to Thorin and his plights, he can do nothing for someone that does not wish for help.

Bilbo, feeling dejected and altogether lonely now, walks back into his sitting room, standing in the middle of it and looping his thumbs in his pockets. He rocks up on his toes, looking at his book, knowing he won’t be able to read. Now he is unsettled in his own skin and curses himself for going to the Green Dragon.

But thinking of it reminds him that he needs to purchase a few barrels of ale as well as the rest of his groceries for the week. The markets will be open now but Bilbo is suddenly quite tired and the idea of pushing a cart loaded with goods up a hill makes him feel even more so and he slumps into his armchair with a groan.

There are three heavy knocks on his door.

Bilbo blinks, looking toward his hall. He can’t remember the last time anyone really knocked on his door, not before ringing the bell, and feels his heart begin to pound. It makes his fingertips throb and he shakes his hands as he stands, cautiously heading back to his door, eyeing it as he approaches.

He opens it and looks at Thorin, frowning, and chooses not to say anything.

Thorin still looks upset, with the same stubborn line to his brow but he meets Bilbo’s eye and says, “I need a sword.”

“Sorry?” Bilbo says, raising his eyebrows. “I’m afraid you won’t find one here.”

Thorin sighs. “I lost my sword two nights ago to bandits,” he says and the hard press of his lips says he does not wish to discuss it further. “I need coin to buy a sword. What do you need?”

Bilbo tries not to slump in relief and certainly has to stop himself from smiling but he takes a step back and motions Thorin inside. “Put your pack inside and I’ll show you."

Thorin stays where he’s at, his grip on his pack tight, and frowns. “Two to five silvers per task,” he says and his tone is firm, just as it had been when they were negotiating something entirely different.

Bilbo cannot stop his smile this time but he does try to stop it from turning into a grin, lest Thorin think he is being made fun of. “Forty silvers for the day. And we’ll still have second breakfast,” he tries, encouraging Thorin inside again.

This time he steps forward and into the smial, lugging his pack off and dropping it on the ground. “I cannot eat a second breakfast,” he mutters, sounding pained at the thought. “But I will take a second meal later in the day.”

“That sounds fair,” Bilbo agrees, and hums a little. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

They do. Bilbo shows Thorin outside and to his leaky pipes, which extend into the inside plumbing, he explains. He is worried Thorin will not know how to fix them but then he speaks in some jargon Bilbo doesn’t understand and comes to trust that he does. They enter Bag End again and Bilbo shows Thorin different things he needs taking care of, whether it is as small as helping him move a piece of furniture, to fixing latches on doorframes or bent metalwork by the hearth or taking a look at his oven, which does not always heat evenly. Thorin is mostly quiet but he does assure Bilbo he can do all of the work well and they decide that forty silvers is indeed fair.

They must go to the Gamgee home for some tools that Bilbo doesn’t have and doesn’t really recognize either. Bungo wasn’t the most handiest of hobbits himself, preferring to hire others to build the smial and maintain it, and the only tools he left behind were gardening ones. Hamfast seems terribly shocked to see a dwarf but he is polite and offers tea, to which Thorin gruffly and shortly declines, and soon they are heading back up the hill with a potato sack filled with different tools.

Bilbo frets for a while when Thorin gets started on the leaky pipes and he can tell that he’s annoyed with him, so eventually he drags himself inside and contents himself with waiting. Thorin will come in soon and he can keep an eye on him then; not because he thinks Thorin will be up to no good but because he cannot help but worry over him now. Selling himself and being attacked by bandits - life on the road has been unkind and even though he does not know Thorin, he knows that he deserves better.

He gets tired of pacing and goes into the kitchen, gathering what he needs to bake shortbread cookies and a blackberry pie. The last of the blackberry harvest was just a short few days ago and Bilbo has a bucketful that need to be eaten before they sour; they are plump and sweet, and he thinks about fattening Thorin up with the pie if he can. He suspects Thorin will eat anything he sets in front of him, depending on when he is actually hungry.

Thorin eventually comes inside and says nothing, getting to work in the sitting room, and the smial is filled with banging and thumping, sounds of life, and Bilbo is as happy with it as he is music. He has company often enough but somehow Thorin is different and he doesn’t think it’s because he knows his home will be in better shape.

The shortbread cookies are first and the quickest; they are cooling before Thorin has moved on to the smoking room, tending to the hearth in there. Bilbo has pie dough in the cold box that he made just yesterday, when he had made mince pies and gifted them to his neighbors. He fetches it and rolls the dough out until he can fit it in his pie tin, which he shortly fills with blackberries mashed with sugar and flour, then tops the filling with more blackberries. He finishes the pie with a lattice top and sticks it in the oven.

Once that is finished, he makes tea and takes a cup to Thorin, who has moved on to the washroom, the place that will likely need the most work, according to him. Thorin declines the tea but manages to mumble a thanks, to which Bilbo smiles and leaves him be. He fetches his book and sits at his kitchen table to read while he waits for the pie, listening to hammering and knocking down the way.

The pie is removed a while later and it has smelled up the smial with the scent of buttery crust and sugared berries and Bilbo sets it on his windowsill to cool. He is shoving a shortbread cookie into his mouth when Thorin appears at the doorway, looking decidedly ruffled and sweaty.

Bilbo chokes on the crumbs of his cookie when the realization of why Thorin wished to bathe earlier hits him and coughs, pounding at his chest as Thorin gazes at him, his brow knitted. He does not offer help, Bilbo notes sourly, and ignores him as he drinks his tea to soothe his throat.

Ignoring the sweat gathering under his own collar, he takes in a calming breath. “Yes?” he asks, as if he hasn’t just imagined going to bed with Thorin, which certainly has no place in his mind.

“The washroom pipes need more work. It will take me some time,” Thorin says, still giving Bilbo a peculiar eye. “I will need more materials. I saw that there is a market today and I must go there to see if I can purchase what I need.”

Bilbo nods. “Of course,” he says, gathering himself more. “Actually, erm, now that you bring it up…” He clears his throat, gamely ignoring the guarded expression Thorin now has. “I need to purchase ale at the market today and while I have you here, I thought that perhaps you can help me carry the barrels. Or… or all of my groceries in fact. Then I can be there to purchase the other materials as needed.”

Thorin stares, then nods. “Very well,” he says, and his tone implies _you will be charged for it_ which makes Bilbo hide a smile.

He grabs a cookie and as he walks by, pushes it into Thorin’s hand, then ventures to his room to get his coin purse. He walks back out and when he goes to fetch Thorin, has to refrain from wiping the crumbs from his beard and forces himself to lead them out of the smial. They walk in silence but it is tentatively more comfortable than any other silence as of yet and soon they are at the market, where they are taken by the sights.

Bilbo gets a cart and begins to do his weekly perusing as Thorin wanders off to where Bilbo directs him with a pocketful of coin. He makes a bit of a spectacle wherever he goes though he does not seem to notice and Bilbo wonders if that is on purpose. Many hobbits stare after him and some are openly pointing, which grates on Bilbo’s nerves but any that ask him are contented with his explanation of a handy-dwarf. Some express interest in hiring him themselves, if his work is good enough, and Bilbo begins to plot.

He’s mildly annoyed when he finishes his shopping and sees that Thorin is being followed by no less than four lasses, all just out of their tweens. Thorin looks the same as he has since Bilbo met him, which is to say angry, and he wonders if he’s noticed he has admirers. Bilbo is bothered by it, as Thorin is still his guest, and maneuvers through his fellow hobbits until he catches up with him, sending a quelling glare to the girls.

They only snicker and continue to stand by, openly staring at Thorin.

“Put your purchases in here,” he says when Thorin has caught sight of him, motioning at the cart. “What else do you need?”

Thorin deposits his armful into the cart and shakes his head. “I am finished,” he says, glancing toward the girls, his expression souring further. “I am ready to continue my work.”

“Shall we have luncheon first?” Bilbo asks, for some inexplicable reason gladdened that Thorin is not happy with his admirers. “You’ve surely worked up an appetite by now.”

 _“Melekun,”_ Thorin grumbles, a word Bilbo does not recognize. “I am well for now.”

Bilbo sighs as if he is greatly disappointed and pats Thorin’s arm. “Oh alright. But you’ll eat a late luncheon,” he vows, then looks at his cart. It is fully loaded and the three barrels of ale, while small, are still quite heavy. He steps aside and gestures at it, smiling when Thorin takes his place and begins to push the cart as if it is burdened with feathers.

They leave the market and walk up the hill together, losing the gawkers, and Bilbo feels as if they both sigh with relief at that.

Thorin helps him with unloading his ale and his groceries and seems to be gradually loosening up. He takes another cookie and sets back off to the washroom to continue working.

After an hour, Bilbo takes Thorin a cup of tea, and refuses to leave until he drinks it. His plumbing looks to be in disarray but Thorin mumbles that it will look the way it did before, without the leaking, and Bilbo goes about his day.  
  
He follows in Thorin’s wake and tidies up where he has been working on the smial, leaving dust or blemishes on the floors and walls. Bilbo doesn’t mind but it gives him something to do that feels like busywork versus lounging about reading; he feels he must be active while Thorin is in his smial and drily notes how good he has been for him so far.

When his stomach begins to truly gurgle, protesting his light second breakfast and late luncheon, he goes into his pantry and begins to gather what he needs for sandwiches. He suspects it’ll be easier to get Thorin to eat them rather than an imposing feast and goes about constructing a few cold turkey and bacon sandwiches with tomato, lettuce and some of his honey-cranberry jam.

Once they are made and sitting in his cold box, he makes his way to the washroom and steps inside, looking at Thorin. He is bent over his pipework still but everything is back together and he merely seems to be inspecting it now.

“Alright?” Bilbo asks.

Thorin startles and when he tries to rise, conks his head on the copper piping. He grunts and hisses, reaching up to lay his hand over his head, and turns a mild glare on Bilbo.

“Good gracious! I’m so sorry,” Bilbo says, hurrying over to him and attempting to get a look under his hand. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Should’ve cleared my throat or something, dreadfully sorry. Are you alright?”

Thorin bats his hands away and lets out what might be a huff. “Dwarven heads are made of stone,” he says but he looks decidedly grumpy and still rubs at the top of his head. “I am fine. I am done here. These pipes will work better and not leak again.”

Bilbo is still trying to inspect his head but Thorin stands and steps away from him. “Good. Ah, very good,” he says, wringing his hands together, looking around his washroom. “I’m sure that they won’t. I was afraid they might explode at any given time so I’m very grateful. Thank you, Thorin. I’ve made luncheon for us, if you’d like to join me now.”

“I think that you would not take no for an answer,” Thorin mutters, then begins to gather his tools. “I will join you. Give me a few moments to clean up.”

“Take as long as you’d like,” Bilbo says, smiling a little to himself. “And I certainly will not take no for an answer. I’ve slaved over these sandwiches, so come and enjoy them.” He takes his leave and goes back to the kitchen.

After fetching the sandwiches and setting his table with them and cheddar biscuits as well as a steaming pot of freshly brewed tea, he sits down and waits for Thorin. He is aware that this will be their first meal thinking along the same lines and hopes it will be less awkward than the first; he thinks of a few things he had said to Thorin over breakfast and has to bury his face in his hands, trying to will away the heat in his cheeks.

He hears Thorin before he sees him and is able to compose himself before he walks around the corner and into the kitchen. To Thorin’s credit, he only hesitates for a brief moment before he takes his seat across from Bilbo, looking down at the spread, a pronounced hunger now evident in his eye.

Bilbo is relieved and merely motions for him to get started, picking up half of his sandwich and taking a large bite. He eats and watches as Thorin does the same; he puts away the food without any issues and tucks in at least four biscuits, to Bilbo’s pleasure.

“I think that the oven should be cool enough to take a look at when you’re done,” he says. Thorin’s eyes meet his and he nods, glancing toward the oven. “I’ve made a pie, would you like a slice? It’s blackberry.”

He stands without waiting for an answer and fetches the pie from the windowsill, bringing it to the table. He gets plates and forks, then cuts two generous portions of pie, serving Thorin and himself. Thorin eyes the plate until Bilbo sits and then he lifts his fork and promptly begins to eat it with the same vigor he always does, and Bilbo begins to wonder if this is how dwarves eat or simply the starved ones.

It is endearing, if not terribly sad, and he smiles to himself as he eats his pie at a more sedate pace.

When Thorin is on his last forkful, Bilbo clears his throat.

“Thorin,” he begins, hoping more than anything that this conversation will not sour, “why are you going to Bree for work?”

“For coin,” Thorin answers, pushing the last piece of pie into his mouth.

“Well, yes,” Bilbo agrees patiently. “But, ah… why are you not working as a blacksmith at your home?”

Thorin’s chewing slows down and he peers at Bilbo until he has swallowed. “There is not enough work to be done in Ered Luin,” he says. “With winter on its way, I will need more coin to get through it.”

Bilbo nods, cradling his tea cup close. “What’s a winter like in the mountains?”

“Harsh.”

Bilbo remains quiet for a time, then hums. “Do you have a family there?” he asks, cautious.

Thorin hesitates, then purses his lips, his eyes narrowed. He nods.

“Children?”

A beat, then another nod.

Bilbo feels resigned. Thorin has a family, has children, and he has been selling himself on the road to earn coin for them. He feels hot, boiling anger roil in his gut and has to take a few calming breaths before he can continue. “Will you go back to them before the storms come down?”

“Aye,” Thorin answers, and he is staring at Bilbo as if he is assessing him as much as he is being assessed.

“If… if you had more work here, perhaps even as a blacksmith, would you stay in the Shire until then?” Bilbo asks carefully, lifting his tea and cursing the tremble in his hand that likely gives him away.

Thorin’s brow furrows. “There is no work as a blacksmith here. I have already tried-”

“No no,” Bilbo interrupts, waving his hand. “I know. I know that but, ah… we’re hobbits, you see. Outsiders are frowned upon most of the time, so not many hobbits would say they needed a blacksmith even if they did. But… but I was thinking that even I could do with a new set of gardening tools and good Angus is getting rather old, so he doesn’t take as many commissions these days. And when we were at the market earlier, a few of my neighbors asked about you.” Thorin’s eyes darken here and Bilbo hastily continues, “About the work you’re doing on my smial. A few expressed interest in hiring you to work on theirs, if I thought you did a well enough job. And, and you’ve certainly done that, and I suspect you could do most anything anyone asked for…”

“You would have me stay here and work out of pity,” Thorin says, and his voice is hard, his jaw working.

Bilbo feels a flare of irritation but tamps it down as well as he can. “I would have you stay here and work to earn coin for you and your family,” he corrects. “We don’t have dwarven strength at our disposal at any good time. I know plenty of hobbits that would hire you as soon as I say your work is good. The Shire is a better place than Bree, in my opinion, and you will certainly be safe from bandits.”

Thorin stares at him for a while and Bilbo traces his finger along the rim of his tea cup, staring between the cooling liquid and Thorin’s startlingly blue eyes. He doesn’t really know where to look and wishes he could stare back at Thorin but he has a piercing gaze and Bilbo is feeling self-conscious.

“You cannot guarantee I would see enough work to gather coin for the winter,” Thorin says. “I know that I can get coin in Bree.”

Bilbo purses his lips. “I think that you’d receive a fair amount of work here. And I know that we’re much more fair with our coin than Men in Bree,” he argues. _And you don’t have to sell yourself,_ he thinks, but doesn’t dare say it. “There are more than enough smials in Hobbiton alone that likely need small jobs here and there. You could stay at the Green Dragon or, or even here.” Thorin lowers his head to look at him from under his brow and he quickly says, “Or not. I do like the company and I’ve always enjoyed feeding others, which is why I offer. But the Green Dragon is a fine place.”

Thorin stares some more, then lowers his eyes to the table and grips the edges of it, not too hard. He doesn’t say anything and Bilbo knows he cannot speak here, that he must wait for him.

Then Thorin meets his eye again and inclines his head. “If you can tell your kin that I do fair work and can see to it that I have enough of it, I will stay for a time. If work does not come easily, I must move on."

“That’s fair,” Bilbo says. “Thank you.” He hums a little and bites his lip, wondering how far he can push until Thorin either gets angry or shuts down. “How many children do you have?”

Thorin does not answer immediately and Bilbo thinks that they have already reached that point. But then he shifts in his seat. “Two,” he says and there is something infinitely more soft about his tone.

“Your wife must miss you fiercely,” Bilbo says, his stomach still churning. She cannot know what he has done.

Thorin lets out a sigh and shakes his head once. “I am not married. They are not my children,” he says. “They are my sister's children and it is her waiting for my return. I help to raise them the best that I can.”

Bilbo is surprised but tries not to show it. “Oh,” he says, nodding. “Of course. I imagine they’re all eager to see you. Hopefully this winter will not be so harsh but they’ll be glad when you’re home.”

Thorin says nothing to this and they sit in silence again. Then Thorin pushes himself back from the table and stands, turning to the oven. He kneels and Bilbo knows that he is going to go to work on it. He watches him for a moment, then stands and begins to clear their plates up, and washes them in the washbasin.  
  
It doesn’t take long for Thorin to inspect the oven; he merely works the metal a bit with the strength of his own hands and that is apparently that. Bilbo hopes that’s all there is to it and thanks him.

“Is there anything else that you need?” Thorin asks and for once does not sound like he is reluctantly opening his mouth.

“I need firewood,” Bilbo says, glad he has thought of it. “I’m running low. I have stores still but it needs chopping. Do you think you’d be able…?”

Thorin is already nodding. “Aye,” he says. “Show me to your axe.”

Bilbo motions for him to follow and they leave the smial, heading around to the back of the garden, where Bilbo has his firewood stores. He grabs the axe from where it is leaning between the wood and the smial, handing it to Thorin.

He takes it, inspecting it, and does not look overly pleased.

“It does the job fine for me,” Bilbo says, mildly amused. He supposes Thorin is a blacksmith and prefers his own work.

“It is dull,” Thorin says, fingering the blade, and he sounds resigned. “I will sharpen it first. You could do with a better axe; you would see the difference.”

“Perhaps if you take up residence in the forge, you can make me a better one,” Bilbo says, smiling a bit. It widens when Thorin inclines his head and he motions at the firewood pile. “Well, have at it then. You can do the whole pile, if you’d like, and I’ll order more wood next week for the winter. When you’re done here, we can have afternoon tea.”

Thorin’s mouth twists a little and he looks vaguely as if he is in pain, which sends Bilbo into happy laughter.

“A joke, Thorin. I won’t force food on you for at least another few hours,” he says, smiling.

Thorin does not smile but his cheeks turn pink and Bilbo grins at him.

“Let me know if you need anything."

“My whetstone is in my pack,” Thorin mumbles, and they walk back into the smial together.

Bilbo goes into the sitting room and sits in his armchair, taking up his book and opening it, listening to Thorin’s footsteps as he walks down to his bedroom. He smiles to himself as he settles in to read a few chapters, hoping that reading will get him into the mood to write, as it so often does. Then he can spend a while not hovering over Thorin and will feel accomplished by the end of the day. He feels as if his only remaining battle will be to ask Thorin to stay at least one more night with him before he leaves for the inn.

He would like it if Thorin stayed with him for much longer but he chooses not to delve too much into why he wants that. It seems like a dangerous road to travel down. He still does not know Thorin, not really.  
  
He is invested in his book and is only brought out of its winding tale when the log in the fireplace splits in half and embers burst into his field of vision. He looks at the hearth, blinking as he realizes the amount of time that has had to have passed, and glances toward the hall to get a good judge on the light. It has likely been almost two hours and he realizes that he no longer hears the beat of an axe.

Wondering where Thorin has gone, because surely he had not reentered the smial, Bilbo stands and goes into the kitchen. He peers out of the window into the garden and frowns at the perfectly chopped pile of wood but no Thorin.

Bilbo leaves his kitchen and then slips into the warm afternoon, walking through his garden and humming in confusion. Thorin is gone but so is the axe and neither are anywhere to be seen when he looks up and down the lane. He walks back to his gate and pauses as he hears the thunk of an axe through wood down the hill. He leaves his garden and walks further down the road, peering at the smials down Bagshot Row.

Thorin is in Missus Boffin’s garden and tending to her own wood pile. The elderly hobbit herself is on her smoking bench with a pipe, watching Thorin and with the way her hand occasionally flutters through the air, speaking with him too.

Bilbo watches for a while, smiling to himself. By morning at the latest rumor will have spread of a dwarf willing to chop wood and work on smials as grand as Bag End and Thorin will receive requests. Bilbo knows this as well as he knows any hobbit goings-on and nods, satisfied. He stays where he’s at until Missus Boffin sees him and waves grandly, which brings a hot flush to Bilbo’s cheeks.

He waves hastily back, then turns and flees back into his home, hoping that Thorin will at least join him in time for dinner.

When tea time comes, Bilbo sits at his table and drinks a fresh pot of tea while munching on salted meats, cheeses and crackers. He’s a little miffed that he can’t offer Thorin anything but he knows that he needs coin above all else and to see that the Shire is willing to offer it, so he abolishes his irritation.

And if he stares out of the window in his study, hoping to see a dwarf of significant stature ambling up the lane, well, only two of his neighbors see him. He pretends to flip through his journals and notes for a while, not really seeing them, his mind stuck on other things. Namely, one thing, but he is beginning to suspect that his newfound occupation might be bordering on unhealthy and tries to get absorbed in writing.

It doesn’t work but he still tries.

It is not until the sun truly begins to set that he sees Thorin crest the hill and knocks half of his papers off his desk in his scramble to stand. He ignores the mess and hurries to his front door, opening it and holding onto the wood as he watches Thorin come to his gate. He takes notice of him and pauses at the fence, as if he doesn’t know if he can enter or not.

For whatever reason this saddens Bilbo and he waves. “Come in, come in! I was beginning to worry you’d miss dinner and then I would have to give you two suppers,” he says, smiling as Thorin enters his garden and ascends the steps. He ushers him inside, then takes notice of a package he has in his hands. “What do you have there?”

Thorin holds the package a little closer, as if he thinks Bilbo might try to snag it from him. “Missus Boffin insisted I take blackberry tarts in addition to the payment she gave me for chopping wood for her,” he says, looking around the smial and not quite meeting Bilbo’s eye.

“Goodness, you’ll be sick of blackberries by the end of today,” Bilbo says, reaching up to pull off a few splinters of wood sticking to Thorin’s shoulder. He feels him stiffen and belatedly realizes what he’s done, and freezes, carefully pulling his hands back. “Sorry, you- you had a bit of… oh never mind, sorry. Come to the kitchen and wash up. Perhaps you can help me with dinner. I was going to ask you to repaint my door, if it was something you wouldn’t mind doing, but now we’ve lost the light. Can I convince you to do it in the morning?”

Thorin follows him obediently through Bag End, still clutching his package. “Aye, I can do that,” he answers, stepping into the kitchen behind Bilbo. He seems reluctant to give up his tarts but sets them down and goes to the washbasin to clean up from his day. “I have been asked to three more homes tomorrow but I will paint your door before I go.”

“Three more!” Bilbo repeats, refraining from clapping his hands in delight. “That’s wonderful, Thorin. What sort of work are they asking you to do?”

“Missus Boffin requests that I look at her plumbing in preparation for winter and her neighbor… I am not certain what his name was but he requested the same. I have been asked to help move heavy items and to fix latches on fences as well as chop more wood,” Thorin answers, and there is something to his tone. Something that almost sounds like, dare Bilbo think it, contentment. As if he is pleased by the outcome of his day.

“I’m glad to hear it. They’ll likely think of more things for you to do by sun up, too. You’ll have another full day ahead of you,” he says, smiling as he watches Thorin dry his hands. “What are your thoughts on dinner? I can make a beef stew or perhaps a roast with potatoes and vegetables. I also have a chicken, which we can have in a soup or a pie.”

Thorin is staring at him, looking a little lost. “I will eat whatever you make,” he says hesitantly, then frowns when Bilbo purses his lips. “I am not…” he trails off, then sighs. “The roast?”

He poses it as a question and Bilbo chuckles a bit. “We can certainly make a roast,” he says. “I’d like help in the kitchen, if you wouldn’t mind. Are you a cook?”

Thorin shakes his head. “I fare well enough for myself and my family on occasion but I am nothing compared to the cooks in the kitchens,” he says, his heavy brow drawn down. “I do not wish to get in your way, Master Baggins.”

“You won’t,” Bilbo assures. “I’ll put you on vegetable cleaning and chopping duty. Give me a moment and then we’ll get started.” He does clap his hands this time and hurries to his pantry, where he pulls out what he needs for supper from the shelves and the cold box. He rejoins Thorin in the kitchen and they begin to go to work.

Thorin proves himself to be competent enough in the kitchen and readily follows all of Bilbo’s instructions. He chops vegetables as well as Bilbo does and watches from the corner of his eye as Bilbo browns the meat above the fire. They combine the roast and vegetables in a pot together with some broth, then put it in the oven to cook. They then share a pot of tea and some light conversation before they begin on the potatoes. Thorin again proves himself to be quite the hero with the way he effortlessly mashes the potatoes but still gets a good scolding for sneaking a fingerful of them once they have been creamed and buttered.

He looks properly abashed but Bilbo suspects he does it again when he turns his back on him.

Dinner is ready in short order and Bilbo serves them both steaming, heaping platefuls of roast, potatoes, and late summer vegetables. He notices that Thorin pushes his vegetables further from his meat and raises his eyebrows until Thorin notices and looks guilty, moving them back to a less precarious position on his plate. He needs all the food he can get, Bilbo knows, and certainly will not see vegetables go to waste, dwarven eating habits or no.

They tuck in and the only conversation to be had is when their forks scrape across their plates.

Bilbo wants to ask Thorin a thousand questions but he doesn’t know the best way to go about it. He is not the most open or friendly of fellows but they are getting on better than they have so far and there are no more misunderstandings between them that Bilbo is aware of. He begins to think that simplicity is the answer.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” he asks and immediately regrets it. Thorin pauses with a forkful of mashed potatoes hovering at his mouth and peers at Bilbo with slightly wide eyes. “I mean, erm. Stay- stay in my smial one more night, that is. So you don’t have to go to the inn and walk around the Bywater tomorrow. You’ll be able to start on work straightaway again. You are more than welcome, Thorin.”

Thorin polishes off his dinner and doesn’t answer for a few moments. When he has rudely wiped his mouth off with his hand, ignoring Bilbo’s pointed looks at his napkin, he inclines his head. “I do not yet have the coin to afford a room at the inn. Staying here would be preferable to camping but I cannot pay you for it.”

“You don’t have to,” Bilbo is quick to say. “I don’t want any coin. Being able to cook for someone other than myself is payment enough.” He smiles, pleased that Thorin will be under his roof again. “You are more than welcome to stay until you gather the coin for the inn. I know you aren’t keen on the idea but I’ll extend the offer beyond that as well. Then you will save more coin for the winter.”

Thorin stares at him. “Why?” he asks, and there is something harder to his tone again.

Out of pity, yes. Because he feels dreadfully sorry for Thorin, certainly. But he cannot say these things or he will risk sending Thorin out to camp somewhere in the Shire by himself. He knows that he’s prideful to a fault, that is easy to see, but he doesn’t know what he can say to appease Thorin; he doesn’t know what sides he has to appease.

“Well,” Bilbo begins, tapping his fingers against the table. “I’ve enjoyed your company today, our earlier misunderstandings aside. I think you’d continue to be good company the longer you’re my guest. I’m also a hobbit and if you are to get to know hobbits in any way, you will see that we like to be exceptional hosts. We enjoy guests quite a lot and I’m no exception. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to tend to any, you’ll be doing me a favor. And if at any time you find that you don’t want to be here, the Green Dragon will always be there, though I do hope you find Bag End pleasant enough.”  
  
Thorin is watching him intently and stays quiet for a time, which never fails to make Bilbo nervous. Then he frowns and looks around the kitchen. “Your… hole is pleasing,” he says. “And it will keep me closer to my work. Is the forge located nearby?”

“It’s actually closer to the Bywater so I suppose if you start to work there staying at the Green Dragon will make it… simpler but you still won’t have all the comforts of home,” Bilbo says, not sure why he is arguing the point as strongly as he is. He only knows that he wishes for Thorin to stay. “And it will still cost you far less. My meals aren’t two silvers a plate.” He smiles a little.

Thorin does not return it but he inclines his head. “I will stay until I cannot."

Bilbo knows that that can mean a number of things and decides not to push it. “Good,” he answers, breathing easier. “Very good. I’ll be glad to have you. If Angus gives you rein of the forge, will you craft your own sword?”

“I will need good iron for it,” Thorin answers. “I will need to purchase metal from Bree if I am to see to the forge. If I can then aye, I will. I have made all my swords since I was a lad.”

“I’m sorry your last sword was taken from you,” Bilbo says hesitantly.

Thorin’s lips thin and he nods. “They robbed me of my bow as well but I am thankful they did not find my coin purse. The sword was crafted mere months ago and drew the eye,” he says, his hand resting on the table clenching into a fist. He pauses, looking as if he wants to say more, then lowers his eyes. “I chose to veer off road in an attempt to hunt my own game rather than purchase a meal at an inn. I was inviting trouble.”

Bilbo is surprised Thorin has offered this but tries not to show it. “You didn’t deserve it,” he says and feel a bit angry on Thorin’s behalf. “The world needs far less bandits. They steal and they pillage and they burn villages to the ground or so I’m told by the Rangers. You won’t find anything like that here. These borders are protected.”

“Aye. You live a serene, peaceful life,” Thorin says but there is something wrong with his words.

They sound snide and bitter. Bilbo frowns at him and Thorin glares at the table until he lifts his gaze and blinks a few times. He shakes his head, looking as if he might be sorry for it.

“There is nothing wrong with your life,” he says slowly.

“I should think not. Hobbits once knew hard times, back when we were wanderers a few Ages ago, but we are a peaceful people now with little to worry of. Most of us might take that for granted but I know I’m lucky where I am and I know others certainly are not lucky where they are,” Bilbo returns. “Even if they deserve better. I’m hoping that your time in the Shire will grant you a better life through the winter.”

Thorin doesn’t quite meet his eye again and fingers the edge of his plate like a scolded fauntling. “Aye,” he murmurs. “I am sure that it will, if the work is steady. Better than the last few winters.”

Bilbo softens and leans back in his seat. “Are your sister’s children very young?”

“Aye,” Thorin answers, and there is something gentle to his tone again. “They are 25 and 30.”

Bilbo blinks, raising his eyebrows. “That’s, ah… that’s considered quite young?” he ventures, bewildered.

Thorin looks at him and frowns. “Dwarflings yet. They will be in schooling until they are of age,” he says. At Bilbo’s continued bemusement, Thorin’s frown deepens. “When they are 70."

“70!” Bilbo repeats, resting his hand over his heart as it picks up pace. “Good gracious, you lot aren’t of age until you’re 70?”

Thorin’s eyebrows make their way toward his hairline. “Aye,” he affirms. “Halflings are not the same?”

“Hobbits,” Bilbo says, shaking his finger. “We’re half of nothing and I’ll thank you to remember that.”

“I meant no offense,” Thorin says quickly, looking rather worried suddenly. “Hobbits. Hobbits age differently.”

Bilbo chuckles. “That we do,” he says, smiling. He quite likes Thorin, he has decided. “We’re of age at 33, you see. So your nieces and nephews would be nearly adults if they were hobbits. Goodness, you lot must live until you’re 300!”

Thorin nods. “Aye, we can, though that is considered very old,” he says, and there is a slight curve to his mouth that was not there before. “Life in the Blue Mountains is rougher than dwarves of years past were used to. We are not as long-lived.”

Bilbo thinks that that explains a few things. “Does the mountain not produce any gold or gems like other dwarven realms do? I’m afraid I don’t know much about Ered Luin."

Thorin’s eyebrows raise, as if he is surprised, but then his expression clears. “We mine coal. If there are veins of gold, we have not found them,” he says, sighing. “This mountain has yielded little but it is enough to get our citizens by.” He pauses, then clears his throat. “Mostly.”

“Mostly,” Bilbo repeats, biting his lip, and forcing himself to keep meeting Thorin’s eye. He feels it would be an insult to look elsewhere. “Where did dwarves of years past live, that were used to something other than Ered Luin?”

“East,” Thorin answers vaguely and does not seem as if he is going to expand on it.

“Oh,” Bilbo says, because he feels he must say something but he doesn’t think now is the time to push Thorin. He wonders if they will get to a point that he won’t have to worry about such things with his houseguest but it seems more than dwarven heads are made of stone.

They sit in silence for a few moments, then Thorin shifts a little. “Nephews,” he says.

“Sorry?” Bilbo asks, frowning for a moment, then starting. “Oh! Nephews! You have nephews. Young nephews.” He smiles. “May I ask their names?”

Thorin hesitates, appearing unsure, and Bilbo waves his hands.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he says softly.

Thorin says nothing so Bilbo stands, grabbing his plate and beginning to reach for the others when Thorin abruptly stands. He reaches out and pries the plates from Bilbo’s grasp, ignoring his squawking, and gathers the rest of them from the table. He takes them to the washbasin and begins to go to work as if it something he does every day and Bilbo wonders if he does, when he’s home with his family.

He frets a little, because that is his mother’s dining set, but he supposes he can only trust that Thorin won’t chip the plates. He makes another pot of tea while Thorin is cleaning and dares a peek inside of the package from Missus Boffin, eyeing the blackberry tarts dusted with sugar. He won’t touch them, as Thorin had seemed possessive, and because he has plenty of pie and cookies to go around. He sips his tea instead and watches the broad expanse of Thorin’s back as he finishes up at the washbasin.

When Thorin has finished, he dries his hands and looks at Bilbo. “I would like to bathe again before this day is done."

Bilbo nods. “Of course. You’re more than welcome to use the tub whenever you’d like, Thorin. Just be sure to wipe it down when you’re done,” he says with a smile. He sips his tea, then sets it aside and claps his hands together. “I’m going to continue my book in the sitting room with a pipe, if you’d like to join me when you’re finished.”

Thorin inclines his head, then fetches his blackberry tarts. He holds the package like one might hold an infant and takes his leave of the kitchen, disappearing down the hall.

Bilbo listens to ensure he goes the right way, as he does seem to get turned around easily, then nods to himself, satisfied. He is amused Thorin didn’t bother offering to share his tarts, as any hobbit would but supposes that he doesn’t blame him, not after starving the way that he has. Now that he will be a guest, Bilbo will see to it that he leaves fattened up for winter and smiles to himself at the thought.

He ventures into the sitting room and gets his pipe, lighting it, and settles back with his book, listening to the sounds of another in his smial. It has been a long time since he had anyone under his roof, mostly Took relations a few years ago, and he feels something warm and cozy settle in his heart at the thought. He thinks that perhaps he has been lonely without knowing it but quickly brushes that thought aside, not wishing to sour his good mood by thinking of the whys too closely.  
  
He reads and he smokes and after a good while hears Thorin leave the washroom. He seems to go into his room first because it is still a few minutes more before Bilbo hears his footsteps down the hall. When he looks up from his book, Thorin appears at the doorway and looks in. He still hesitates and Bilbo doesn’t say anything but he does eventually come into the sitting room and sits in the chair across from Bilbo’s.

Bilbo notices he has a pipe in his hand and smiles. “Do you need any pipe-weed?”

Thorin shakes his head and produces a match, striking it and lighting up his pipe, which he had likely prepared in his bedroom. He inhales deeply and blows the smoke out and manages to look the most relaxed that Bilbo has seen him thus far. He stares at the fire and seems content enough to do so but Bilbo feels as if he must offer more.

“Would you like a book to read? I have many,” he says. “Fantastical tales and romantic ventures.”

“I am well,” Thorin says and it is certainly the most polite he has been. “Thank you,” he adds after a pause.

“You’re quite welcome. Let me know if you change your mind,” Bilbo says and settles back, chewing on the stem of his pipe and continuing to read.

They don’t speak after that but it is peaceful and Thorin seems content enough simply thinking. Bilbo looks at him now and then from over his book and wonders how it can be that he looks so regal. Thin and tired, perhaps, but he has a certain bearing that is hard to miss, even in his patched leathers. Bilbo fancies that he could have been a lord in another life, one that granted him good fortune.

When it begins to get on in the evening, Bilbo sets his book aside, and announces he’s going to get a bath in himself. Thorin stays where he’s at and Bilbo leaves him to his thoughts, going to his washroom and preparing himself a bath.

He still finds himself hoping Thorin doesn’t snoop about and feels guilty but they have only known each other for a day. He suspects trust will come in time and truly does not think that Thorin will be up to no good in his time in the Shire, as he hardly seems the type, but he still hurries through his bath quicker than he might otherwise.

After he has dried and dressed in his robe, he heads back into the sitting room and blinks at Thorin.

Thorin, who has fallen asleep with his head leant on the back of the armchair, his mouth open a little. Bilbo is frozen and watches Thorin until he has to scold himself and quietly creeps back to his chair, sitting down and picking up his book. He cannot seem to tear his eyes away from his guest and feels badly for it but Thorin is simply too handsome and the fact that he is comfortable enough to fall asleep makes Bilbo’s stomach feel pleasantly warm and full.

He reads and listens to Thorin’s gentle snoring and it is only when he is beginning to have trouble keeping his own eyelids open that he decides it is best they both turn in. Thorin will get an achy neck sooner rather than later and he will have an early morning (as will Bilbo, he notes) besides. He marks his page, nearly the end, and stands, bouncing on his toes as he eyes his guest.

He steps closer and lifts his hand, gently resting it over Thorin’s shoulder and gives it a light shake.

Thorin’s hand moves quickly enough that Bilbo hardly sees it but he certainly feels it as it tightens enough around his wrist to make the bones creak in warning.

Bilbo hisses but stays where he’s at, because he is pinned by a blue gaze that look hard and alarmed but still unfocused from sleep.

Thorin blinks once, then seems to come back to himself, and quickly lets go of Bilbo’s arm. “Master Baggins,” he says and sounds startled on top of sorry. “Forgive me, I did not expect… I am sorry. Are you hurt?”

Bilbo takes a step back and cradles his arm to his chest, rubbing it. “No… no,” he says, his heart racing considerably fast. “I’m very sorry, Thorin, I should have simply called for you. It’s, ah, it’s rather late and I think we’re both quite tired, so- so perhaps we should head in, yes?” He blinks and takes another step back as Thorin stands from the chair.

Thorin looks upset and almost angry and he frowns at Bilbo. “Are you hurt?” he asks again, then extends his hand, carefully, like one might do to an injured animal. His fingertips graze Bilbo’s arm and he hesitantly lets Thorin take his wrist in hand, watching him all the while.

“I’m alright,” he says quietly and hopes that this time it sounds reassuring. But Thorin’s large fingers begin to massage his wrist, the touch far more gentle than he seems capable of, and Bilbo’s breath stutters.

He lets Thorin rub his wrist until he begins to feel more heated than he should and lightly clears his throat. Thorin lifts his eyes from where he has been watching his work and meets Bilbo’s gaze, something soft in his expression.

“I am sorry. I will get used to being in a safe place again,” he says, letting go of Bilbo.

Bilbo nods. “I hope so,” he says, then smiles a bit when Thorin lowers his eyes. “More for your sake than mine. It was my fault, Thorin, don’t worry. Now come along before you fall asleep again. I imagine you’ll have another early start in the morning.”

Thorin inclines his head and takes up his pipe, knocking the ashes into the dying fire. He tamps it down a little more without being asked to and Bilbo goes around taking care of his oil lanterns until the smial is fairly dark.

They walk together down the hall and pause in front of Thorin’s door.

“I think I’ll be up with the sun again but if I’m not, you’re more than welcome to knock on my door. Then I can prepare breakfast for us before you begin your day,” Bilbo says. “I have a feeling I won’t get to feed you all of the most important meals tomorrow so it’ll be a very large breakfast.”

Thorin smiles. An honest to Eru smile. And it is one of the most beautiful smiles Bilbo has ever seen and he is glad that it is dark because he is certain his cheeks turn rosy.

“I do not think _melekun_ serve anything but large meals,” Thorin says and arches his brow a little, almost as if he is teasing but Bilbo doesn’t dare to believe it.

“I should think not! We have quite the appetites,” Bilbo says and smiles. “I assume _melekun_ means hobbits or halflings?”

“Aye,” Thorin says. “Halflings, though you are half of nothing.”

Bilbo chuckles and tries to will his heart into staying put in his chest. “Good of you to remember,” he says with a grin. “Well, I shall see you in the morning, Thorin. I hope you sleep well.”

“And you, Master Baggins,” Thorin says, inclining his head, and turns to his door. He steps inside of the room and closes it behind himself and Bilbo listens to him move around inside for a moment.

He eventually goes down to his own bedroom and stokes the fire, feeling rather light on his feet. He climbs into bed, nestling into the covers, and has time to smile before he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I started writing this with a "one shot under 10k" in mind. That didn't happen. Cough. Expect part two in a few days!
> 
> Kudos and comments really do mean everything, please let me know what you think!
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vtforpedro)


	2. Chapter 2

Bilbo and Thorin fall into a familiar routine in their first week. The days begin early (a little too early for Bilbo but he doesn’t complain) and Bilbo prepares them breakfast, sometimes with Thorin’s help. He then sends him off with pockets loaded full of cookies or scones and bags of nuts with raisins to get him through his day. Thorin has enough work to keep him busy until nightfall and only then does he reappear at the smial, ready for dinner, which he always helps Bilbo prepare.

Thorin begins to put weight on; it is slow at first but by the end of the second week there is a noticeable difference in him and he seems to have more energy and smiles come easier. Bilbo is even able to coax a few laughs out of him, which never fails to make him delighted and he vows to hear it more.

Angus takes a little convincing but eventually he does grant Thorin the use of the forge and once he finds a few hours that he is not busy in a hobbit’s smial, he disappears around the Bywater and doesn’t appear until after dark, filthy but with a grin, and says that he already has commissions to fix up gardening tools and kitchenware. He agrees to make Bilbo a new set of gardening tools and it is in short order, just another week, before he presents them; they are the finest tools Bilbo has ever laid eyes upon and he pays Thorin what he thinks they’re likely worth.

He suspects Thorin is fattening up his coin purse nicely but doesn’t dare ask about it for fear of a misunderstanding of some kind. He is happy for him, unbelievably so, and doesn’t wish to sour their growing friendship in any sort of way. Thorin can still be prickly and is prideful, nearly arrogant sometimes but he is also polite and can be quite kind and his dry humor always catches Bilbo off guard.  
  
September ebbs into October and the days begin to cool and the Shire begins to turn into vibrant oranges, reds and golds. Thorin mentions that he will leave in a month so he beats the worst of the storms and Bilbo tries not to wonder at why he feels so put out about it. On that day he is quiet to the point that Thorin asks him if there is anything he can do, which makes Bilbo feel dreadful and scrounge up a smile for him.

After that, he vows to make their last month together go as well as it has been, if not better. There are festivals to attend and Thorin has been getting along well with the residents of Hobbiton, and is always invited with Bilbo to parties and weddings and the like. It leads to Bilbo hesitantly hinting at Thorin getting new clothes for himself, which is met with a startlingly amount of resistance, to where they nearly get into a shouting match about it. It’s not until two days later that Thorin appears and gruffly accepts the offer for Bilbo to take him to the tailor so he has appropriate wear for more formal occasions.

It takes quite a lot of convincing for Halfrid to make clothes in a less traditionally Shire fashion but he agrees to make the trousers long and the material more hardy, so Thorin can still wear them when he travels, if he so wishes, and Bilbo ignores how utterly pained Halfrid looks to say it.

It is on the day that Bilbo gets a messenger from Halfrid that the clothes are ready and he waits at home until Thorin arrives in time for luncheon, which he has made a point of taking with Bilbo as often as he can.

He hears him enter the smial, glad that he is finally doing so without knocking, and looks up from where he’s been writing at his desk. Thorin’s boots thud down the hallway and soon he appears in front of the study, looking in at Bilbo and smiling.

It never fails to make his heart thunder. “Hello,” he says cheerfully, then picks up the note from where it is laying on his desk. He waves it around. “Your clothes are ready. I thought we’d run down and pick them up before we have a quick luncheon.”

Thorin heaves a sigh and inclines his head. “Very well,” he says begrudgingly, which makes Bilbo chuckle. “I am in the forge today so I am not expected at any smials.”

“Good!” Bilbo says, stoppering his ink bottle and standing. He claps his hands together and leaves the study. “Shall we head right off then?” Thorin nods, so Bilbo leads him back down the hallway and they soon leave the smial, stepping into a cool autumn day. The skies are gloriously clear and it smells of sage and marigolds and there is a sense of peace in Hobbiton.

It is harvest season and apples are plentiful, as are sweet treats such as apple pies and strudels and Bilbo is enjoying it immensely. It helps that Thorin is now filled out rather well though still lacking in the pudge Bilbo thinks he should wear; he is very fine to look at, not that he wasn’t even when he was underweight, but his skin glows a healthy tan and his hair has more life to it.

Bilbo is proud of his transformation and takes credit for it, even if it’s just to himself.

They traipse lazily down Bagshot Row, greeting friends and family, and take their time, enjoying being outside. Thorin is often holed up in his forge, where he has more work these days, but he seems to like being in the garden with Bilbo, who wonders if it’s strange to know a dwarf that likes being above ground.

They head to Halfrid’s and knock on his door. Bilbo smiles to himself when Thorin begins to shuffle on his feet but he keeps quiet, not wanting to tease him.

Halfrid opens the door and peers between them. “Bilbo. Master Thorin,” he says, bowing his head and ushering them in in a dramatic fashion.

Thorin steps inside and when Halfrid stares disapprovingly at him, removes his boots, which is something he had to comply with last time even though he had glared mutinously. The elder hobbit had hardly batted an eye, which was no surprise, as he dressed even the most cantankerous hobbits.

“Come along,” Halfrid says, motioning for them to follow and leads them to a room that’s blanketed with the scent of incense. It is brightly lit and full of rolls of fabric, bins of needles and thread, and numerous shelves filled with other materials as well as neatly wrapped packages. He picks up one of them and turns, handing it to Thorin. “Take these and go and change so we can take a look at you.”

Thorin takes the package and goes to the room across the way that Halfrid indicates, stepping inside and closing the door after himself, expression sour.

“He’s a quiet one, your dwarf,” Halfrid says, grabbing a roll of fabric and putting it away.

“Oh, erm. He’s hardly my dwarf,” Bilbo says, his cheeks warm. “But yes, I suppose he’s quiet. He’s more talkative when you get to know him.”

“Gotten to know him well by now, have you?”

Bilbo opens his mouth, then closes it, blushing now, and clears his throat. “Well yes, he has been living with me for a month now,” he says, hoping that Thorin is not able to hear their conversation. “I would consider us friends.”

“Friends,” Halfrid repeats and it is said with an amusement that makes Bilbo uneasy. “Aye. And how long will your friend be staying in the Shire? Indefinitely?”

Bilbo frowns, not fond of gossip. But Halfrid is easier to deal with when he is being humored. “No, I’m afraid not. He has a family he has to get back to in the Blue Mountains. He’ll be in Hobbiton for another month, perhaps less,” he says, trying to ignore the way his heart feels hollowed at the thought.

“Coming back in the spring?” Halfrid asks. “Or the summer?”

Bilbo is ready to respond but he falters, blinking a little. Hope lights in him suddenly and he cannot help the way his blood thrums. He had not thought about next year; Thorin will need coin for the next winter, of course, and perhaps he will leave Ered Luin to find it again. Bilbo is about to respond but the door across the hall opens and Thorin steps out and he has no more words.

Thorin looks radiant in the golden glow of the hall and even more so when he steps into the room and sunlight. He is dressed in a deep blue tunic with intricate, angular black stitching and a neat, sharp hem. The collar is wider than Bilbo is used to seeing him in but it only helps to accentuate the growing muscles in his shoulders and chest. The trousers are dark and sturdy but they manage to look both fine and formal, the material of which shines in the sun.

Bilbo is staring with his mouth open and only snaps it shut when Halfrid tuts at him. The elder hobbit goes to Thorin and begins to poke and prod at him, turning him this way and that, grabbing his arms and handling him in any way that pleases him. Thorin endures this though he doesn’t look pleased and more than once glances at Bilbo with a dark look in his eyes.

He is mildly amused behind the shock of how handsome Thorin is. He watches, smiling, and thinks of how well it’ll go over when Thorin shows up in his new clothing to a birthday party three nights from now. He will be an attraction; not that he’s not anyway, Bilbo thinks with annoyance and has to stop from souring his own mood. It’s getting a little old now to watch other hobbits leer at Thorin and he is still fending off the occasional conversation that leads to inquiring about his status.

“Quite fine, quite fine,” Halfrid says once he is done with adjustments, stepping back and squinting. “Better than those leathers you sport.”

Thorin eyes him. “I do not need fine clothes in a forge,” he mutters.

Halfrid waves his hand. “But you’ve needed them for a while in any case,” he says, to which Thorin glares. “Here now. Try this on.” He fetches another package and thrusts it into Thorin’s hands.

Thorin takes it but frowns heavily. “We did not order anything else,” he says, attempting to hand it back.

Bilbo is warmed by the _we_ and pats his belly, which feels light and airy, watching Halfrid as he settles a look on Thorin, which seems to say he thinks him rather slow.

“It’s made for a dwarf, you, so you’ll try it on,” he says, turning and going back to his workbench.

Thorin looks down at the package, then turns a pleading eye on Bilbo, who shrugs and motions him back to the dressing room. He looks as if that is the last place he wants to go and murmurs something that sounds distinctly Khuzdul-like and disappears back into the room.

“Stubborn like you,” Halfrid murmurs, still busying himself with other work.

Bilbo sniffs, deciding not to deign that with an answer, and gazes around the shop as he waits for Thorin.

It is not long before the door opens and Thorin shuffles back out, looking as if he has sucked on a lemon, though Bilbo doesn’t quite notice as his breath has been taken away.

This time Thorin is in a deep maroon tunic that falls halfway down his thighs and is accentuated with blue-silver stripes across the shoulders, distinctly dwarven in their angles. Bilbo briefly wonders how well acquainted Halfrid is with dwarven styles before he is distracted by the trousers. They are Bilbo’s favorite beige material and are short in the traditional hobbit fashion, ending just below Thorin’s knees.

It is a delightful mix of styles and though Thorin’s wool socks throw it off a little, he is exceptionally handsome and Bilbo feels himself flushing and has to tug at his own collar.

“Good,” Halfrid says, coming over to inspect the measurements and stitching. He walks in a circle around Thorin, occasionally tugging at his clothing, then comes to a stop in front of him. “There. You’re a proper citizen of the Shire. You’ll wear this one to May’s party.”

Thorin glances at Bilbo, who nods in confirmation, then settles his gaze back on Halfrid. He is a head taller than the tailor and looks as if he can break him in half and his expression suggests he might be thinking along those lines but he inclines his head nevertheless.

Bilbo sighs. “Thank you, Halfrid, they are perfect,” he says. “I expect nothing less from you. How much do we owe you for the second pair?”

“It was pitiful enough that he didn’t have anything but those leathers to wear for the last month,” Halfrid says. “I’ll take forty silvers for it.”

Thorin puffs up like a particularly ruffled bird and opens his mouth but Bilbo is quickly shaking his head, waving his hands. Thorin looks at him and shuts his mouth but the hard press of his lips speaks plenty on what he thinks of the cost.

“The materials are very fine,” Bilbo reasons, used to the steep cost of Halfrid’s clothing and thinking this outfit is well priced. “We’ll take it, thank you.”

Halfrid nods approvingly and shoos Thorin back to the dressing room, ignoring his scowl with ease.

Bilbo hopes Thorin doesn’t rip the clothing in his anger and watches him go a little fretfully. He reappears a short time later and has not made much of an attempt to fold his clothes and simply hands them in a ball over to Halfrid alongside the packages, which is clearly his idea of payback if the way he stares at the tailor in challenge is any indication.

Halfrid merely tuts at him and expertly folds the clothing, putting them back in their packages, neatly tying them together. When he turns expectantly to the pair, Thorin has already fished out enough silver from his coin purse and does not look happy to hand it over but does so anyway.

“Now be off with you two. Come back if there are any issues though there won’t be,” Halfrid says after he has pocketed his coin, handing over the packages. “Good day.”

Bilbo knows a dismissal when he sees one. “Thank you again, Halfrid, they’re simply wonderful,” he says, patting Thorin’s arm. He doesn’t bother to thank the tailor himself and Bilbo hums in amusement, walking with him back out of the shop, only stopping to allow Thorin to put his boots back on.

They walk outside together and Thorin holds the packages away from his body as if they are diseased and Bilbo cannot hold in a laugh anymore. He does so freely and grins when he looks at the disgruntled expression Thorin is wearing.

“You looked very handsome in them, you know. He knows what he’s doing, most of us go to him."

Thorin’s cheeks look flushed. “I did not ask for a second pair,” he says, his brow furrowed. “He is a swindler.”

“He’s a businessman,” Bilbo says with another chuckle. “It’ll be worth it to have more than one pair of clothing while you’re here, Thorin. And they look warm enough, perhaps they’ll suit you at the mountain still.”

Thorin mumbles something, then sighs. “I will not wear the short trousers in the mountain or I will be run out of it,” he says, glancing down at Bilbo’s trousers.

“Excuse me, but these are of the highest of fashion here,” Bilbo says, huffing, and smiles when Thorin hides a grin. “They would look better if you went barefoot.”

Thorin barks a laugh, then looks a bit startled. Whether at his own laugh or the idea of going barefoot, Bilbo can’t say. “My feet are not as hardy as yours are,” he says, shaking his head. “But your hills are soft.”

“You have another month to get used to going barefoot,” Bilbo says. “I think you should try. You’ll have to dance as the festivals and it might be better if you can’t stomp on everyone’s feet with those horrid boots of yours.”

“I will not have to worry so as I will not be dancing,” Thorin says. “As I have already told you. I have not danced in over a century.”

“Good gracious, I’ll never get used to hearing that,” Bilbo says. “A century! What does that matter, hmm? You’ll remember how once you do so. If I asked you to dance with me, would you deny me?”

“That is not fair,” Thorin says grouchily. “How can I deny you after all that you have done?”

“You can deny me all you'd like, I’ll just be very upset about it,” Bilbo responds, then smiles to let Thorin know he’s joking. “Shire dances are not likely the same as dwarven ones. We are quite lively.”

“Then I am likely to step on feet anyway.”

“Probably,” Bilbo says fairly and pats Thorin’s arm. Thorin merely huffs at him and he smiles again, pleased with himself and how the day has gone, despite it only being luncheon.

They make their way back through Hobbiton and ascend the hill, arriving at Bag End shortly. Once they are inside, Thorin goes to his room to get rid of his packages and Bilbo goes into his pantry to decide on what to make for luncheon.

He decides on ham steaks with fried potatoes and broccoli with shaved white cheese. Thorin joins him and helps with the potatoes, which he is good with, and they share conversation as they cook together. It doesn’t take long and soon they are seated at the table, serving themselves tea, and beginning to eat a hard-earned (on Thorin’s side anyway) luncheon.

When they are finished, Bilbo leans back and rests his hands over his stomach, watching Thorin. He is munching on one of the scones from the plate in the middle of the table, orange with a sugar glaze, and doesn’t notice the scrutiny he’s under.

Bilbo is highly aware that his feelings for Thorin have not always remained… innocent. He thinks of him fondly and considers him a friend, even a good friend now, but there are times when he is in his bed and entertains the thought of more. He knows it’s impossible, that it’ll never be, but he has been attracted to Thorin from the start and now he knows him and there is so much more to him than he had expected and he likes all of it.

He doesn’t dare to think that it is more than _like,_ as that thought is frightening, and dangerous.

“Thorin, may I ask you a question?” he asks, well aware that he is likely delving into something he shouldn’t but it has been on his mind since the day he met Thorin and he has not asked him.

Thorin looks up, chewing and swallowing his bite of scone, and nods.

“Why were you selling yourself?” Bilbo blurts with no finesse and immediately regrets it, wincing. “Erm, sorry, I just- I’ve just been thinking about it lately and… I probably shouldn’t… bad form to ask. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked, Thorin, please forgive me, it’s not my business.”

Thorin is staring at him, holding his half-eaten pastry in his hand, unreadable. He simply gazes at Bilbo and it is uncomfortable, if not a little intimidating.

“I needed coin,” he finally says and his tone is hard and unyielding.

Bilbo nods, not quite able to meet his eye. He admonishes himself for his foolishness and bites his lip. He remains quiet for a moment or so, then asks, unable to help it, “But why that? You didn’t approve of it, I don’t think.”

“No, I did not approve of whoring myself,” Thorin says with a brutal honesty that makes Bilbo flinch. “I could not find work anywhere. Not as a blacksmith nor anything else. I was left with little choice; starving or returning home empty handed. I could not go back with nothing, not so long before winter.”

Bilbo looks at Thorin, forcing himself to meet his eye, and lets out a slow breath. “I’m sorry it came to that,” he says quietly. “How… how long were you on the road before you came to the Shire?”

“You are asking me how long I did it for,” Thorin says. “I only did it twice, Master Baggins. Once because I was asked and once because I sought it out. I was not looking for it the night we met but I thought you were offering the way it was offered to me the first time.”

Bilbo feels a bit queasy and sad, not at all happy with Thorin not using his name. He swallows. “I’m still sorry we had that misunderstanding but you must know how glad I am that you’re here now, Thorin. And not… not having to resort to that. It doesn’t suit you and I’m sorry you ever had to. No one should starve enough to be pushed into it-”

“It was selling myself or my nephews and my sister starving through the winter. I knew what choice I had to make,” Thorin interrupts and his tone is rough. Then he visibly softens and leans back in his chair. “If I had not spoken to you that night I am not sure where I would be now. For that, I am grateful. I am grateful for all that you have done.”

Bilbo shakes his head. “It’s been my pleasure,” he says. “Truly. You’ve been an immense help and, ah, a good friend.” He lowers his gaze back to the table and hums. “I’ll be sad to see you go when you do.”  
  
“We have a month yet,” Thorin says quietly, something gentle in his tone. When Bilbo looks at him, he sees that his lips have curved into a small smile. “And many parties to attend.”

Bilbo chuckles a bit though it is altogether not a joyous sound. “I suppose we do,” he says. “You were against them just two short weeks ago, you know.”

“They have grown on me,” Thorin says, then pauses. “The ale and food helps.”

“I imagine it does,” Bilbo agrees, laughing more genuinely now. He smiles and shakes his head. “I’ll have to keep you away from moonshine come the fall festivals. I don’t think you can handle it.”

“I have been drinking longer than you have been alive,” Thorin says drily. “Do not underestimate my tolerance, Master Baggins.”

“Don’t underestimate Hamfast’s home brew,” Bilbo returns, shaking a finger. “Or you will sorely regret it.”

Thorin’s eyes gleam and Bilbo wonders if he has just issued a challenge unknowingly. He supposes he’ll find out soon enough.

——

May’s birthday party goes off without a hitch and Bilbo leaves with a few beautiful wicker baskets, filled with Thorin’s present of healthy, fat mince pies. Thorin’s outfit had been highly praised and Bilbo had to put up with a Thorin that strutted around like a particularly proud peacock. Not that it was hard to put up with, as it was amusing and he had been glad to see Thorin proud of something beyond the forge.

It is clear some days that Thorin misses his family and his mountain fiercely, as he takes to staring West when they’re in the garden with a melancholy expression. It is hard to pull him out of those moods and Bilbo knows now to leave him be after being snapped at a few too many times for intruding. He understands, of course, but it still makes his heart ache, to know that Thorin is so eager to get back home; he feels bothered and selfish when he finds himself thinking along those lines and reminds himself that he too would miss home if he was gone for so long. Thorin has little in the Shire, after all. Only a way to earn coin and nothing more.

Bilbo could not hope to be good enough for him.

Bilbo knows now of Dis, Fili and Kili, though perhaps not as much as he would like. Thorin is still not overly open about his family and Bilbo mostly learns of them through small mentions throughout their time together. He soaks up everything that he can and feels a part of Thorin’s life, at least in some small way.

A week after May’s party is the first of the fall festivals. It begins around afternoon tea and Bilbo is mostly in the kitchen preparing dishes to take. He makes rhubarb, sweet potato and apple pies, along with plenty of scones, which are always a request from his friends and family. He normally makes scalloped potatoes but Thorin is insistent that he has a hand in them and Bilbo watches him as he makes the potatoes with more cheese and cream than even he normally does.

They will still be delicious and Bilbo will enjoy them more for having known Thorin has made them.

He is also looking forward to Thorin showing off his outfit though not necessarily the attention he will garner while in it. He still has his admirers, even more than when he first came to the Shire and Bilbo is jealous of it, in an ugly way. He is not fond of watching both lads and lasses throw themselves at Thorin’s feet but he knows he must endure it if they are to attend any social gatherings.

When their food is prepared, Bilbo packs his lovely new baskets full and stacks them on top of each other, then lets Thorin handle carrying them. He will miss his strength when he is gone and does not even want to think of missing his conversation.

They walk down to the Party Field and unload their baked and cooked goods on the groaning tables laden with food. Music has already started being played and while no one is dancing quite yet, rather mingling together and greeting each other, the musicians are playing loudly and enthusiastically.

Bilbo and Thorin greet the hobbits they are most fond of and Thorin is charming and kind but still aloof and distant with those he does not yet know. Bilbo knows it comes off as cold but he has long since learned to ignore the whispers behind hands and judgmental looks from the less cordial hobbits.

“Mister Bilbo! Mister Thorin!” a familiar voice cheers and they turn to face Hamfast, who is carrying three mugs of ale. He hands one each to them and they gladly take them.

“Thank you, Hamfast,” Bilbo says with a warm smile and lifts his mug in cheers, then takes a hearty gulp. Thorin at his side does the same and licks the foam from his moustache, something Bilbo must look away from.

“What fine clothes!” Hamfast says, looking Thorin up and down. “That’s Halfrid’s work, that is! The best tailor in all of the Shire and best you don’t forget it or he’ll make sure you don’t.”

“Aye. He mentioned it once or twice,” Thorin says with a wry smirk. “He was gracious enough to think of dwarves when making these.”

Hamfast nods. “He’s familiar with different styles. Dressed all sorts when he worked in Bree for a time,” he says, still looking over the clothes with an approving eye. “Now, I have to run back home and help Bell with the food. Will you be joining me for a drinking game or two, Mister Thorin? You assured me you can handle it though I don’t know much about a dwarf’s constitution.”

Thorin huffs a haughty huff, which makes Bilbo smile into his ale. “A dwarf’s tolerance is high,” he says, lifting his mug. “I will be sure to best as many as I can.”

“You just wait until my home brew before you go gettin’ smug now!” Hamfast warns, quite seriously. “I’ll be on my way. I hope you brought your scones, Mister Bilbo, my Bell does love them so.”

“Don’t worry, I most certainly did bring them,” Bilbo says, then waves when Hamfast tips his hat and hurries off. He looks at Thorin and raises his eyebrows. “What did I tell you?”

Thorin arches a brow in return. “You think me not able to compete with hobbits?”

“Goodness, Thorin, have you learned nothing in your time in the Shire? You’ve apparently forgotten how well we do with anything in our bellies,” Bilbo says, patting his. “I’m afraid if you let it get out of hand that you’ll be sleeping in the Party Field tonight. I certainly won’t be carrying you back to Bag End.” He eyes Thorin, who has put on more weight and looks divine, if Bilbo has to say so.

When he looks back up, he notes that Thorin’s cheeks are rosy and hopes he has not inhaled his entire ale already. He tries to get a sneaky look at the mug but it’s held a little too high for him and Thorin is watching him rather closely anyway.

“We will see yet,” Thorin says. “But I plan to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

Bilbo is sad to hear it, then thinks himself fairly ridiculous, and hides his sorrows in his ale. When he has resurfaced, Thorin is still watching him, and he raises his eyebrows in question.

“I am hungry,” Thorin says suddenly and turns away, looking at the tables they are still standing near. “Let us eat before we are left with scraps.”

Bilbo snorts. “I think there’s plenty to go around,” he says, pointing at the potatoes. “You’ve made enough potatoes to feed the entirety of the Shire rather than just Hobbiton.”

Thorin looks pleased at this and Bilbo chuckles, leading him to the plates that Bonny Bracegirdle always supplies. Hardy things that can handle festivals and rambunctious parties. Bilbo and Thorin wait in line, which is getting a bit long, with two plates each and are soon filling them with as much food as they can carry. When they have made their selections, they choose a table more near the outskirts of the gathering, which they both prefer, and sit down.

Thorin has a heaping pile of his scalloped potatoes and Bilbo smiles fondly to himself.

They eat and drink and make merry, watching the festival as it goes on. There are games and activities for fauntlings, including bobbing for apples and pinning the tail on the donkey. Most faunts roam together in their respective age groups and Bilbo sees Thorin watching them with the small smile he gets when there are children around.

He wonders why Thorin never had children of his own - why he is not married. There surely must be a reason. Before he can get carried away with it, as he does in bed alone at night, he greets Drogo Baggins as he walks by the table.

Drogo instead turns right to them and sits down across from Bilbo. “I’m doing it tonight, Bilbo. I’m asking her,” he says.

“Sorry? Asking who what?” Bilbo asks, trying to think of a lass they have talked about previously.

“Primula!” Drogo cries impatiently and Bilbo fumbles with his fork. “How can you forget her? I’ve been sweet on her since we were faunts. I’ll be of age soon and so will she. She’s so beautiful… she’ll have plenty of suitors. I have to try and woo her before they can take her away from me.”

Bilbo watches his cousin with fond exasperation. “I’m sure she won’t be scooped up the moment she’s of age. Primula is smart and someone I’d rather not cross. She’ll know what she wants,” he says. “And she’ll know an idiot when she sees one."

“Will she?” Drogo asks worriedly, peering back through the tables and crowds, craning his neck. “D’you think she’ll take a shining to me?”

“You’re a good lad,” Bilbo says, glancing sidelong at Thorin, who is peering between them with a mildly amused expression. “I’m sure that you’ll charm her. Or at least endear yourself to her simply by being yourself.”

Drogo looks at him, squinting, as if he doesn’t know if he’s been insulted or not. “If you say so. I’m going to try at any rate. Mum approves,” he says, looking relieved. “I was afraid she wouldn’t. But she says we could use a Brandybuck in the family.”

Bilbo smiles. “There you are then,” he says. “You’ll be fine, lad. Are you going to ask her to dance?”

Drogo nods, puffing up a bit. “Yes. I’ve been practicing so I won’t step on her too much,” he says. “Da says I have big feet. But I’m a fair dancer by now, I have to say.” He stands up suddenly and look as if he is about to go to war. “Wish me luck, Bilbo, Mister Thorin. Tonight is the night I woo my lady love.”

Thorin and Bilbo exchange a glance, then look back to Drogo.

“You won’t need luck but I suppose I’ll wish it for you anyway,” Bilbo says, holding up his mug.

“Go on, lad,” Thorin says, then watches him dart off. When he is gone far enough, he turns to Bilbo and grins. “He will scare her off in his eagerness.”

“There is no scaring Primula,” Bilbo says with a chuckle. “I think she’ll be charmed by him. They’ll probably marry the moment they can. If she takes to him, that is.”

Thorin hums. “I was never as eager as that to charm any suitors,” he says, looking at Bilbo and smiling wryly. “Not that I had many.”

Bilbo gapes at him, then attempts to school himself and look like a proper hobbit again. “No?” he asks, happy his voice has not faltered on the word. “Erm, why not? You’re very, ah… well, erm, you’re quite charming yourself.” He refrains from wincing but Thorin only looks amused.

“I am too like an elf for many dwarves,” Thorin says and this time there is some bitterness and he washes it away with ale.

Bilbo blinks a few times. “Sorry, but I thought I just heard you say you’re like an elf,” he says, raising his eyebrows and looking at Thorin’s broad forehead, his large nose and his distinctly dwarven body. “How on earth are you anything like an elf?”

Thorin’s cheeks turn a bit red and he motions at himself. “I am too fair,” he says. “My face is too narrow, my nose too small. And I have always been slender.”

“Slender,” Bilbo repeats, utterly bewildered. Thorin is far broader than any hobbit could hope to be and there is a clear strength to him in the way that his muscles tend to bulge when he’s working. Not that Bilbo has spent too long staring at him. “You… you look very dwarvish to me. A rather handsome dwarf.” He avoids Thorin’s eye and looks around the party.

Thorin is quiet for a moment. “That is why it was easy to sell myself,” he says, low, and this time Bilbo looks at him. He is frowning, a wrinkle between his brow. “I am considered handsome to Men and I suppose to hobbits. I was surprised by this but it seems true enough. I am used to being considered ugly.”

Bilbo feels a bit angry suddenly. “Ugly! You are the furthest from ugly that I have ever seen, thank you very much. The rest of your kind can stuff it for all that I care. Elvish! I say. You hardly look anything like an elf,” he says, fluttering his hand through the air. “You are a perfectly respectable dwarf. You may even be a bit too handsome here, I’m sure you’ve noticed your admirers.” He glares at his fellow hobbits, though most he sees are married with broods of their own.

“As much as I have noticed yours,” Thorin admits, cheeks pink, and Bilbo gapes at him again.

He bursts into laughter. _“My_ admirers? Goodness, I hardly have any of those. Not for quite a few years now. Most people that stare at me are not doing so kindly,” he says, waving his hand. “You, on the other hand, will likely receive a marriage proposal or two before you go.”

Thorin turns even more red at this and makes a displeased face. “I hope that is not so,” he says. “I will have to disappoint them.” He looks at Bilbo, peering at him more intently than before. “You are handsome.”

Bilbo is sure his face is set aflame and opens his mouth once, then twice, blinking. “Am I?” he asks, high in pitch, and tugs at his collar. “I’ve never… I’ve never really thought so. Thank you, Thorin.” There is hope lighting in his belly but he does his very best to tamp it down; there is no point to it.

Thorin inclines his head and he is smiling as he turns back to his ale. He finishes his mug and stands, holding out his hand. “May I refill your mug for you?” he asks politely, and Bilbo is still busy gathering himself and forgets how to respond. “Bilbo?”

“Hm? Oh!” Bilbo says, hastily grabbing his mug and finishing his last few gulps. He chokes on the end and has to cough himself silly as he hands the mug over to Thorin. “Thank you,” he wheezes and wipes tears from his eyes.

“Are you well?” Thorin asks, but Bilbo is already nodding and waving him away. He hesitates, then turns and leaves, heading back for the large barrels that have a good sized crowd around them.

Bilbo wipes his mouth off with a napkin and takes in deep, steady breaths, trying to will his heart into calming down. He is too blasted old for one silly compliment to get the best of him and he cannot look too closely into it besides. He had just called Thorin handsome so perhaps he was simply returning the favor and didn’t mean it. Yes, that sounds far more accurate than anything else it could possibly be, and Bilbo nods to himself, though he feels depressed at the thought.

He watches Thorin and sighs to see him get swept up in conversation, especially by pretty lasses that bat their eyes at him. He had said that he would disappoint them but he’s here for another few weeks yet; what if someone catches his eye? Bilbo slumps his shoulders morosely and pokes at the macaroni salad remaining on his plate.

It takes Thorin a while but he does eventually return and is carrying a plateful of pie along with the ales. He sets the plate down between them and Bilbo smiles to see Thorin has gotten him a slice of meringue, one of his favorites. Thorin himself has the rhubarb, which he is fond of, and he sets to stuffing it in his mouth as if it will disappear at any given time.

When they are halfway through, Thorin is shuffling a bit in his seat and Bilbo knows he is going to ask about hobbits. He always gets nervous when he does, which is endlessly amusing to Bilbo, and he patiently waits for him.

“How do hobbits court?” Thorin eventually asks and Bilbo chokes on his pie.

He coughs and grabs his ale, flushing from his neck to his ears at another display, and gulps down the heady liquid. Thorin pats him on the back, which does not help, until he waves him away.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice raspy. “Erm. Is there any particular reason you’re asking?”

Thorin shakes his head quickly. “I am only curious of the differences in our cultures,” he says and it sounds rather rehearsed.

Bilbo feels his stomach plummet. He has the strangest feeling that Thorin is not telling him the truth and the dreadful thought that perhaps Thorin already does have his eye on someone swarms forth. It is an angry, bitter thought, and Bilbo wars with himself, trying to decide on what to say. Part of him wants to lie, so that if Thorin does have someone he wants to court he can muck it up, but then he feels terribly for thinking so and takes in a deep breath.

“Well,” he says, tracing his fingertip around the mouth of his mug. “It’s not overly complicated. Quite simple, actually. We often wait until a party or festival like this, like Drogo has. We might ask for a dance or… or even a simple walk together, where we might offer a hand to be held. Flowers are most often used in courting, however. Bouquets and flower crowns both. If you are presented with a flower crown in front of a gathering of hobbits, it’s quite a declaration of intent. And flowers have different meanings, of course, so you can state your affections with them. It’s fall, so you’re likely to see crowns and bouquets of camellias, chrysanthemum, orchids, wax flowers and roses. That would be obvious indeed and a lovely bunch of flowers.”

Thorin is watching him as he speaks, which makes him a bit flustered considering the subject but he remains quiet and attentive.

“What would that flower crown signify?” he asks.

“Well, let’s see. Camellias mean desire and passion. A little bold but my mother gave my father an entire crown made of them when they were courting. She said he almost fainted, which I believe,” Bilbo says, smiling at the memory. “Orchids mean beauty and strength. Roses of course mean love and balance. Chrysanthemum means fidelity, joy and long life. Wax flowers are probably my favorite of the lot, they mean lasting love and patience. My parents had that and were a very fine couple indeed.”

“I did not know flowers could possess such meanings,” Thorin says, and sounds sheepish. “It is no wonder you were not pleased when I pulled what I thought were weeds in your garden.”

Bilbo chuckles. “Yes, but I’m glad my poor daisies survived,” he says, patting Thorin’s arm. “You didn’t quite destroy all of them.”

Thorin ducks his head but he is smiling. “I am glad,” he says. “Thank you for telling me of hobbit courtships. Dwarves do not often share our customs with others so I am privileged that you would share this with me.”

“Oh, I know all about how tight-lipped dwarves can be,” Bilbo teases and chuckles when Thorin gives him a sidelong look.

“Our customs must be protected,” he says, not for the first time.

“Oh, I know, you silly dwarf,” Bilbo says, sniffing. “Ridiculous but I know. I suppose that means you can’t tell me about dwarves’ courtships then?”

Thorin smiles at him and shakes his head. “No,” he says, to Bilbo’s disappointment. “But one day. When I am ready to.”

Bilbo sighs but nods. “Very well. If you must wait,” he says, nudging his elbow against Thorin’s.

Thorin continues to smile and doesn’t look away and they gaze at each other for a moment. Bilbo is close to telling Thorin just how handsome he is again but then a small voice says, “Mister Thorin?”

They turn and look and there are four children standing behind them. Thorin adjusts himself on the bench and the little girl holds out a pansy to him. He takes it, looking surprised, and smells it.

“And what is this for, young one?” he asks kindly. She is a Boffin, if Bilbo is not mistaken.

“Remembrance,” the girl says, giggling and clasping her hands behind her back. The rest of the children are grinning and Thorin chuckles.

“And why are you gifting me a flower of remembrance?”

“Mama said you were going to leave and we want you to know we’re gonna remember you,” a Brandybuck lad with a mop of brown curls says, perhaps nine or ten.

Thorin looks so completely taken aback by this and stares at the children until Bilbo gives his arm a pinch. He starts, then holds the flower closer. “And I will remember you,” he says, beginning to smile again. “Thank you, young ones. I am honored.”

“Can we make you a flower crown?” the girl asks innocently, though her eyes gleam.

Thorin looks at Bilbo, as if for confirmation, and he smiles, nodding. Thorin looks back to the children and stands from the bench, then formally bows. “I would be glad to wear a flower crown,” he declares, and grins when they all giggle. Then they are suddenly grabbing his hands and he is being pulled away.

Thorin has time to throw a look of surprise over his shoulder but Bilbo merely smiles in amusement and watches them as they go. He sighs to lose his company but knows he will be back eventually with a flower crown and perhaps a bit more knowledge on flowers. Maybe the children will even teach him how to make a flower crown but that thought threatens to sour Bilbo’s mood, and he decides to take his ale and find someone he knows.

As he begins to make his way through the crowd, he spies Drogo and Primula standing close to where there is dancing and they seem to be in friendly conversation. Bilbo smiles at this, then spies Hamfast in the middle of a large crowd of lads, gesturing wildly through the air, likely telling a tall tale or two.

Bilbo joins them, greeting a few hobbits, and is soon distracted and entertained by his neighbor’s renditions.

He gets roped into reciting some of his poems, mostly amusing or lewd, and most that everyone has heard a handful of times before. They are still favorites and he enjoys them as much as the next hobbit. After that is mostly chatter and a good many brews of ale, until Bilbo is wondering where Thorin has got off to and begins to look around for him.

He is not hard to find, as he is taller than everyone, but the flower crown atop his head is even more noticeable. It complements his dark hair quite nicely and Bilbo smiles, until he notices Thorin is surrounded by lasses, most of whom are the ones that tend to follow him around. He scowls and excuses himself from his friends and cousins, beginning to make his way toward Thorin.

When he gets close enough, he notices that Thorin is holding hands with the little girl from before, though she is beginning to look distracted. He feels himself soften a bit, though not entirely, because any of those lasses could be who Thorin might have his eye on. He is still stumped when he thinks of how Thorin had spoken about courting and decides he’d really rather know if he is planning on gifting anyone a flower crown.

Bilbo shuffles his way between the lasses and stops at Thorin’s side, touching his arm. Thorin looks quickly at him, then visibly relaxes, and smiles.

“Mister Bilbo, can I dance with Mister Thorin?” the little girl asks brightly and he blinks in surprise. The ladies around them coo and Bilbo grumbles.

“Well, I am certain that you can, but it’s not me you need to ask, I think,” he says, motioning at Thorin.

The little girl sniffs primly and looks at Thorin, taking her hand away. She gives a proper curtsy and holds her hand out in an invitation. “Mister Thorin, will you dance with me?”

Thorin smiles, sketches another bow, then takes her hand. “I would be honored, Miss Hanna,” he says, glancing at the ladies surrounding him. “Excuse me.” He looks glad to be rid of them and takes Hanna to the crowd of dancing hobbits.

Bilbo watches, and smiles to himself when she puts her feet on Thorin’s boots, then motions around with their joined hands, indicating the steps they are supposed to follow. Thorin looks mildly concerned but he observes the other hobbits and begins to move. It doesn’t take him very long to loosen his shoulders and soon he is swinging Hanna around and wearing the finest grin West of the Misty Mountains.

“You’re watching Mister Thorin closely,” someone says and Bilbo looks at Marydale Rumble, a known gossiper.

“Well, they are cute together, aren’t they,” he says, already not liking where the conversation is going. “I was wondering what the children had done with him. He’s got a very fine flower crown.”

“It’s not just his flower crown that’s got more than your eye,” Goldie Proudfoot titters, waving a fan in front of her face, as if she needs it in the autumn evening.

“You’ve been awfully distracted since Mister Thorin came to Hobbiton,” Hilda Sandyman says, giggling a high-pitched, girlish laugh.

Bilbo purses his lips and glares some. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” he says. “Thorin is my guest. I’ve a duty to tend to while he’s here.”

The ladies snicker and look between each other and he puffs up, entirely prepared to give them something to gossip about.

“Oh, will you lot leave off?” another voice says and Bilbo looks around to see Primula Brandybuck, with Drogo at her side.

They are holding hands and Bilbo relaxes some to see it.

“Go gossip elsewhere. Mister Thorin wouldn’t be happy if he heard you,” Drogo says, holding his chin up.

“I think he might be,” Marydale says with a bit of a sneer as she looks at Bilbo. She sniffs delicately and turns, her skirts whirling, and they head off.

Bilbo sighs in relief and looks at the couple. “Thank you,” he says, then smiles as he looks down at their joined hands. “Shall I offer congratulations?”

Drogo puffs out his chest and grins broadly. “You can and thank you very much,” he says, lifting Primula’s hand and smacking a proud kiss to it.

She laughs and shakes her head. “I’m afraid I could no longer resist his fumblings,” she says, smiling warmly at her new sweetheart, then looks at Bilbo. “Ignore them, Bilbo. You know they love to gossip about anyone and anything. I think you and Thorin make a fine pair, friends or more. And it’s not our business if it is. He seems as if he’s able to handle himself too.”

They all look toward Thorin, who has now been joined by another girl, little Miss Poppy Smallburrow if Bilbo isn’t mistaken, and is holding one hand each of the fauntlings. They are giggling and he is laughing and it is quite a sight. Most who are standing near are watching them and grinning and Bilbo knows Thorin will have even more work to his name in the coming days, by those that are still stubbornly suspicious of him, even after weeks.

“He is,” Bilbo says, sighing a bit. “Though it can get overwhelming I think. He’s never been fond of too much attention but I do think he might have his eye on someone.” He doesn’t know why he says it but he feels bitter about it and grouchy the more he thinks on it.

“Does he?” Drogo asks, looking at Primula and arching his eyebrows. “Has he said? Offered any favors?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Bilbo says, and eyes the couple as they look between each other. _“You_ two don’t have any ideas do you?”

Drogo opens his mouth but Primula elbows him hard in the side and he grunts, snapping his mouth shut.

“Oh, I’m afraid not,” Primula says. “I’ve not seen him with his eye on anyone, when I think of it. Maybe he’ll come to you when he’s ready, if he is looking for more. You’re a good friend to him and I’m sure he trusts you. You’ll help him if he needs advice.” She smiles kindly but Bilbo is feeling disgruntled.

“I suppose,” he says, looking toward Thorin, who now has Poppy and Hanna on his shoulders and is dancing in a wide circle with everyone else. He feels his heart shrivel up at the idea of Thorin being sweet on someone and clears his throat, looking away. “Well, anyway. Thank you for your help. I’m afraid my mug is in need of a refill.”

They smile at him and he doesn’t quite like the sympathetic edge Primula’s has. Drogo simply looks too elated for anything else and they say their goodbyes to him. He watches them go, then heads to a barrel to fill his ale, which is beginning to thrum through his veins. It’s getting on in the evening and the musicians are playing with fervor and there is a great roar of mingling hobbits and it would all be quite fine if Bilbo could find it in himself to enjoy it.

He goes to find an empty table and sits down, doing something he hates himself for: wallows in his own misery. But Thorin is not around to see it, so he thinks that it is safe.  
  
Thorin is far more than he could ever hope to have in his life. He is too handsome, too proud, too good, and Bilbo is just… Bilbo. He has nothing but a smial to offer and that wouldn’t be enough, not with Thorin living in the Blue Mountains. It could never be. And Thorin does not likely look at Bilbo as anything but a friend. He would never offer a place at his side or ask to stay by his.

They live too different lives. And Bilbo does not know where Thorin’s attractions might lie either way. He had said he was handsome, yes, but that was out of pity, surely, and nothing more.

Perhaps any romance that Thorin might have while he is in the Shire will not last, as he will be leaving no matter what.

But then, what if it does last and there are letters and visits besides? Bilbo drinks his ale thirstily and doesn’t bother looking around the Party Field anymore. Which is likely why he doesn’t see that he is no longer alone.

“Your mother would be beside herself to see you like this.”

Bilbo chokes on his ale and begins to cough, idly thinking that he will die if it happens one more time tonight, and looks wildly around until his eyes fall on Mirabella Brandybuck, who is seated next to him.

“Aunt Mira,” he wheezes, wiping away pained tears and tries to stand to greet her.

She waves him off but leans over so he can plant a kiss on her cheek. Then she pulls back and levels him with a critical eye. “Would a certain dwarf be the reason you’re sitting out here all alone and drinking enough ale to fit three hobbits?”

Bilbo sputters, then looks down at his ale. He sighs to see it is one mouthful away from being gone and looks back at his aunt, shrugging. “No… no, it has nothing to do with Thorin. Rather, I’m not even in a… a bad mood or what have you. Just thought I’d get some fresh air, all the dancing, you know, bothers anyone…”

“Except you haven’t danced tonight,” Mirabella says, arching an eyebrow.

“Well, no,” Bilbo says, a bit miffed. “But being too near to it still makes my head fuzzy, you know.”

“The dancing,” Mirabella says drily and Bilbo grumbles. “Not Thorin.”

“No!” he cries, perhaps too quickly and too shrilly. He looks around to make sure they haven’t been heard, then looks back at his aunt, slumping against the table. “It’s not… not exactly. Well, I mean. Maybe a bit. But. Well. Bother.” He finishes his ale, then holds his mug against his chest, staring sadly down at its pitiful remains.

“Oh, sweet pea,” Mirabella sighs, something she hasn’t called him in quite a few years, and it warms him while also making him inexplicably offended. “You don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?” he asks grouchily, bothered by her sympathetic tone.

Mirabella settles her green gaze on him and smiles a small, secret smile, then reaches over and pats his arm. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out in due time. Speaking of, how long is our resident dwarf remaining in the Shire? I remember him mentioning he’ll be gone by winter.”

Bilbo is not fond at all of this conversation and while he loves his aunt dearly, so like his mother, he regrets that she has come to him. “He’ll be leaving in a few short weeks, in fact,” he says quietly, looking toward the dancing, seeing Thorin still grouped among hobbits. “I imagine it’ll go by quickly.”

“But it still leaves time,” Mirabella says and it is soft, almost as if she is speaking to herself. “You’ve been so happy these last few weeks, Bilbo. Thorin seems to have done you some good. And he seems to be in the best spirits I’ve seen him in. I think that you two make for a very fine pair.”

Bilbo looks at his aunt; really looks at her. She is watching him with kind but sparkling eyes and he furrows his brow. It is hard to see her and not his mother sometimes and that look on his mother would have warned of mischief. “We’ve become very good friends, I think,” he says cautiously, then feels all of the fight, all of the bitterness and all of his hope leave him.

“He’ll never have me.”

Mirabella sighs and scoots closer to him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and letting him lean into her embrace. “Has he said so?”

“No,” Bilbo mumbles, admonishing himself for the sting he feels in his eyes. “But he doesn’t need to. I’d rather not hear it, to be quite honest. I’ll not ruin our friendship by making him uncomfortable.”

“You’ll never know unless you try, Bilbo Baggins,” Mirabella says, waving her finger in front of his nose. “I think Thorin would be such a perfect fit for you. He is kind while you are grumpy. He is polite while you are cranky.” She is speaking in a grand tone and he feels himself smile. “He is quite handsome and you happen to be so as well.”

Bilbo huffs and pulls back, rubbing at his eye as discreetly as he can. “Oh, please,” he says, his cheeks warm. He decides not to tell her that Thorin had called him so as well. “I suppose we do mellow each other out but… but he has a family. In Ered Luin. He can’t stay here and I could hardly think of going with him. If I said anything to him, I’d be inviting heartbreak, and I’ve done that once before and I won’t do it again.”

“Oh, Bilbo, you were so young then,” Mirabella says, and pats his cheek. “And Thorin is not the same. When he looks at you, there is something more in his eyes. Gorbadoc and I were discussing it earlier, you know.”

Bilbo groans a bit. “Please tell me that you weren’t,” he says, looking around to make sure his entire family is not somewhere in hiding to hear the latest gossip. “I’d really rather not know what you two were saying about us.”

“Only good things,” Mirabella says with a smile and looks toward where Thorin is not so much as dancing as being climbed on by numerous fauntlings. “There have only ever been good things to say about you and our dear Mister Thorin.”

Bilbo blushes and grumbles, tapping his fingers on the table. He stays quiet for a while and Mirabella pulls out her pipe, lighting it and blowing smoke rings. Then he sighs and shakes his head. “I simply can’t. _We_ simply can’t. There is too much to consider and so little time. I won’t hurt him or, or myself, I won’t be able to take it. It’s best if I just let Thorin go home and not worry so much about it. We’ve known each other for less than a month and a half for Eru’s sake!” He sniffs. “We’ll be fine without each other. I’ll miss him, as… as a friend, but that’s it.”

Mirabella blows out her puff of smoke in a long, slow breath. Then she looks at him and smiles and it is sympathetic just like Primula’s was. “Oh, Bilbo. Love is friendship that has caught fire,” she says, “and it is loyalty through the good and the bad. You’ll see it, before the end.” She reaches over and takes his hand, squeezing it tight, then leans in and presses a kiss to his temple.

She stands and he stares down at the table, at a loss of what to say and not feeling much better.

“There is time, Bilbo, for whatever you decide,” Mirabella says and touches the back of his head. “He’s looking for you.”

Bilbo looks up and across the tables, finding Thorin among the crowd. He does indeed seem to be looking around, peering over the heads of hobbits, and just when Bilbo is thinking of diving under the table, not quite prepared, his eyes come to a rest on him.

Thorin visibly lights up and grins, then begins to make his way through the crowd, and Bilbo looks up at Mirabella. “How did you know? With Uncle Gorbadoc?”

She smiles. “You just know, sweet pea,” she says and turns, heading off.

Thorin passes her and greets her warmly, then continues on his way to Bilbo, grinning broadly and sweating from his dancing. He doesn’t sit, merely comes to stand by Bilbo’s side, and offers him a hand.

“You have not yet asked me,” he says, a bit out of breath. “So I will ask you. Dance with me.”

“That didn’t sound like a question,” Bilbo says, his voice a tad froggy. Thorin’s smile falters and Bilbo shakes himself, taking his hand and standing. “Oh, if I must. But only the one, if you insist on wearing those boots.”

Thorin squeezes his hand and lets out a huff. “I only stepped on four feet,” he says, with a wicked grin, and Bilbo finds himself laughing.

He takes his hand away and clasps them both behind his back, raising his eyebrows expectantly, and Thorin lets out a gusty sigh, leaning down to remove his boots and socks. He stashes them under the table, then squares himself, meeting Bilbo’s eye and smiling.

“Dance with me?” he asks, offering his hand again.

“Alright,” Bilbo says and takes his hand, and he feels both light and full, depressed and elated. It is a mix that still leaves his eyes stinging but the desire to laugh is bubbling in his stomach and he is not sure he will survive the night in such conflict.

But then Thorin begins to lead him to the music and to the dancing and some of his sadness ebbs away. Hobbits greet him enthusiastically, as if he has not just been dancing among them, and then Thorin is pulling him onto the soft, trampled grass and faces him, taking both of his hands.

And Bilbo finds himself swept away and is in Thorin’s arms and pressed against his side and clapping their hands together and he is laughing and he is in love.

He knows it now.

He also knows there is nothing to be done about it.

They dance and Bilbo only finds himself growing tired when they are through their fifth number. He has to give up and wheezes as he goes to find a nearby chair to collapse in and Thorin follows at his heels, shining with sweat but grinning so widely that Bilbo feels his heart is fit to burst.

They talk for a while and though it takes time, Bilbo begins to find his stride again, and is a bit less concerned about how he will progress through their friendship. He will keep quiet and it will be easier that way than opening himself up to heartbreak. He will see to it that they part as friends and nothing more, nothing less. He owes it to Thorin after his hardships especially - the last thing he needs is a hobbit who has been too careless with his heart.

He loses Thorin to Hamfast and his drinking games and contents himself with watching the fool of a dwarf strut around arrogantly until he is seated at a table and a battle of wills begins. Moonshine is the bester, as it always is, and it is only an hour or so before Thorin is swaying in his seat. He is quite animated when he is in his cups it seems and tells a few rousing tales of drunken youth involving his good friend Dwalin and a few boars.

He’s quite the charmer, as Bilbo already knows, but he does get loud half an hour later.

Bilbo would rather not speak about the next half hour but Thorin makes an utter fool of himself and is declared a sound loser.

He seems to want to continue drinking and Bilbo must intervene here before he cannot use his own two feet, and Hamfast, red-faced but smug, offers to help take him home. They get a muscular arm thrown around each of their shoulders and are serenaded in Khuzdul but all in all, they do make it to Bag End and get Thorin through the door and eventually, after a detour to the washroom that lasts quite a while, get him to his bed.

Bilbo is a sweaty mess at the end of it all and knows he will be in the bath once he gets Thorin to sleep.

Detracting himself from a handsy dwarf is a different matter and he’s regretting saying goodbye to Hamfast before he had made it out of Thorin’s room.

“Yes, yes, I know,” he says, squirming away from Thorin’s bruising fingers, trying to push him into a laying position. “You are quite a mighty warrior, you’ve told me many times. Lie down, Thorin.” He tries to push his shoulders but Thorin’s hands reattach to his arms and he is squeezed.

Thorin looks at him with a somber expression beyond his shiny, pale pallor and wide pupils. “I have love in my heart,” he declares and sways enough that Bilbo thinks he might fall right over.

He keeps a grasp on him though his heart has skipped a beat before rapidly picking up pace. “Do you now? For your sword?” he asks drily, still trying to push him. “Thorin, please, lie down before you hurt yourself.”

“Anything,” Thorin says and lies down obediently quite suddenly, half taking Bilbo with him. “I love in a way I never have and not for my sword. I wonder if he knows it.”

Bilbo is feeling sick now and swallows, extracting himself finally from Thorin’s grip, and grabs the blankets, pulling them up and over the drunken dwarf. “That’s very nice,” he says, his throat dry. “I’m sure that he does, erm, know it. Will you be alright by yourself?”

“Not until he is by my side,” Thorin says, peering up at Bilbo and smiling, his eyes half-lidded.

“Well, ah. Perhaps when you’re sober,” he says, stepping back and watching him anxiously. “Thorin?”

“He is beauty. His hair is light gold in marble braziers,” Thorin says, looking dazed, and he closes his eyes. “And his eyes are grassy fields in mid-spring…”

Bilbo waits some more, then blinks as the next sound of Thorin’s mouth is an earth-shattering snore. He sighs and goes to the fire, stoking it to life and setting a few logs in the hearth. He looks at Thorin once more, then leaves the room, closing the door behind himself and leaning back against it, shutting his eyes.

Wonderful. A blond-haired, green-eyed lad and Thorin is apparently in love. It could certainly be the moonshine talking but Bilbo suspects more and feels vomit making its way up through his throat. He swallows it down and moves to the washroom to prepare a bath, trying not to think of Thorin gifting any flower crowns or sharing any dwarven customs with someone he’s sweet on.

His belly is regretting the food and ale he has packed away throughout the night and he can only stomach a short bath in the hot water. He dries and dresses himself in pajamas, then goes into his bedroom, tending to his own fire before he lies down and stares up at the ceiling, watching the shadows extend inky black fingers across it.

He swallows and closes his eyes tight, trying to will away the thought of Thorin with another. He came into the Shire guarded and suspicious and now he will leave with someone else’s name on his lips and Bilbo cannot take the thought.

He curls into a ball and holds in his tears.

——

Another week goes by and another wedding and another fall festival. There is merriment throughout the Shire and Bilbo finds that sometimes he cannot stand it. He cannot stand to see happy couples and love blossoming in the air; it is too much for him and he feels his heart crack just a little more whenever he sees Thorin throw his head back and roar with laughter.

Thorin is as busy as he ever has been and fixes up smials as far as Tuckborough, getting most ready in preparation for winter, and he is only in Bag End in the evenings. He leaves very early in the morning as he enjoys a full day at the forge if he can afford one as well. Bilbo misses him so fiercely when he’s gone that he begins to worry for himself; surely it cannot be healthy, to be so taken by somebody that you wish to see them at every waking moment of the day.

He hears his mother laugh at him when he thinks along those lines and has to divert his attention elsewhere lest he feel truly pathetic or burst into tears.

He sees neither hide nor hair of anyone that Thorin might be getting close to. There are no calls at the door, no flowers or other favors sent, and Thorin does not say anything, nor seem preoccupied with any particular thoughts.

It is perplexing and Bilbo begins to wonder if perhaps Thorin’s love is back in Ered Luin and not the Shire at all. He doesn’t wish to entertain the thought that they were just words spoken in a drunken stupor, as they had been so specific, and he cannot let hope take him, not in the least bit.

Thorin allows himself one day off a fortnight and it is currently that day and Bilbo is in the garden, planting winter flowers. There will be violets, pansies, honeyworts and sweet peas. He finds, to his dismay, that he cannot scrounge up enough excitement to even see them and for the first time since that dreadful day together curses Thorin for ever coming to the Shire.

“Have the flowers wronged you?”

Bilbo tries not to lose his trowel but he startles rather badly and fumbles with it for a moment. He turns and looks at Thorin, who is standing a few feet behind him with a tray in his hands. He is smiling almost timidly, as if he has sensed Bilbo’s bad mood and is hesitant to disturb him.

All of his irritation leaves him in a rush and Bilbo sits back on his heels, shaking his head. “Thinking about my latest interaction with Lobelia,” he says, a bit of a stretch of the truth. He _has_ recently had a bad run in with the hag of a woman and Thorin knows all about their contention, so he seems to easily accept the answer.

“Do not maim your flowers over such a reason,” Thorin says and steps closer, holding out the tray.

Bilbo wipes his hands off and stands, smiling as he looks at his tea kettle. “Thank you, Thorin,” he says, pouring himself a cup. Thorin has been making tea lately for him when he is too busy reading or writing to remember to do so himself. It had been disastrous the first few times but he is better at it now.

Once Bilbo has put a spot of honey in the tea, grateful that Thorin has brought it in case it is too bitter, Thorin sets the tray down out of the way and promptly sits down on the ground.

“Bilbo, I must speak with you,” he says, somewhat quiet.

Bilbo immediately feels sweat gather on his palms and his stomach makes a quick loop but he sips his tea and nods, sitting back down. “Of course, Thorin,” he says, gesturing.

“I will leave in ten days,” Thorin says and he is frowning, almost apprehensively. “Storms come early in the mountains and it will be safer travels before they begin.”

Bilbo’s heart aches and he gently rubs his chest, staring down at his tea. He watches the swirling liquid and finds he doesn’t quite know what to say. He knew, of course he knew that Thorin would be leaving and soon, but to hear a sure date leaves him feeling lost and hollowed. He purses his lips and furrows his brow, trying to get a hold of himself.

“Bilbo?” Thorin asks and there is worry in his voice.

Bilbo looks up and puts on a smile. “Sorry,” he says, trying to sound far more casual than he feels. “I suppose you’ll have to go then. I would hardly want you to encounter the worst of the storms. Ten days! Good gracious, I’ll have to bake soon, so I can send you home with some goods. It’s better than cram, believe you me. Not that I am familiar with cram myself, though you have made it abundantly clear it’s hardly appetizing.”

He is aware he’s rambling but can’t quite find it in himself to stop and Thorin is simply gazing at him, expression unreadable.

Then he lowers his eyes to Bilbo’s growing pile of dying flowers. “I am not looking forward to the travel but I am eager to see my sister and my nephews. I have missed them greatly,” he says. “But I will also miss the Shire. I have enjoyed my time here, Bilbo, thanks to you.”

“Oh, well,” Bilbo says, sipping his tea, then setting the cup aside. “I’m glad to hear it though you are the reason for your enjoyment, I think. Perhaps I gave you a bit of a nudge but you’ve done extraordinarily well for yourself here, Thorin. I’ve been so happy to see it. The Shire will miss you. I’ll, ah… I’ll miss you, as well.”

Thorin looks at him and smiles a bit, though he looks quite sad. “And I you,” he says, low. “You… you are a great friend to me, Bilbo Baggins.”

“And I consider you the same,” Bilbo peeps, overwhelmed by the conversation. “Perhaps, ah… perhaps we can write to each other. I’d like that.”

Thorin inclines his head. “As would I,” he says. “I would be glad to write you. My sister will likely wish to write you as well. Our winter will not be a hard one, thanks in large part to you.” He smiles as Bilbo opens his mouth. “If you had not tried to proposition me, we would not be here.”

Bilbo blushes to the roots of his hair. “I most certainly did not! That was- you- but- oh, shush, you ridiculous dwarf,” he says, turning away as Thorin chuckles. He grabs his tea and busies himself with drinking it, hiding his flush behind the cup. When Thorin grins at him, he rolls his eyes and sighs. “Fine, if you’d like me to take credit for everything then I will, and you best be grateful until the end of your days.”

Thorin is still smiling and he nods. “Aye, I will be,” he says, though it is obvious he is serious. “Thank you.” He looks at the seeds Bilbo has in different jars. “May I help?”

Bilbo hesitates, knowing Thorin isn’t the best in the garden, until he realizes he doesn’t care. “Of course you may,” he says, grabbing the pansies and handing them over.

They do mean remembrance after all.

They set to work in the garden and though Thorin needs quite a lot of direction, Bilbo is glad to simply be able to sit near to him and speak with him. Smiles are still easy to come by and there is a constant bubble of warmth in his belly when he is around Thorin and though it will end soon, Bilbo will hold onto it for as long as he can.  
  
——  
  
Bilbo fights a quiet battle with himself for the next week. He is torn between confessing his feelings, despite telling himself he wouldn’t, and sticking by what he said and leaving Thorin be. He thinks it would be a dreadful thing to do, so close to Thorin leaving and after everything he has experienced.

Their friendship has grown even closer which is hard to swallow sometimes, as it can be very painful to endure small touches and kind gestures without thinking of it as more. But Bilbo must keep those thoughts and his feelings to himself and does not speak to them to anyone, not even Aunt Mira, who had tried to talk to him at the last fall festival and birthday party Thorin attended. He regrets that he opened his heart up to her to begin with and admonishes himself nearly daily for letting someone know him so intimately.

He hears his mother scold him for those thoughts but thinks that she may just be wrong on this occasion.

So he keeps quiet and it is agonizing but needed.

Hobbiton decides to throw one last hoorah for Thorin before he goes and manages to keep it a very good surprise, disguising it as another fall festival, until Thorin is presented with a massive cake and many well wishes. He turns as red as Bilbo’s favorite carnations and goes quiet for a while but once he has gotten over his shock, manages to enjoy the party even more so than any of the others. He seems to make it a point to speak with as many hobbits that he has gotten to know as he can and entertains children for hours and dances, and drinks and eats, and tries to keep Bilbo by his side for most of it.

Bilbo has a hard time even smiling but he scrounges up what he can for Thorin because he deserves it.

And then it is the night before Thorin is due to leave.

The days have flown by and it is decidedly unfair and Bilbo has to take a few breathers by himself throughout the day. Thorin closed up the forge the day before and finished all his work throughout Hobbiton the day before that and has spent his last day packing up his belongings, which have grown in number.

He expresses some fear of bandits on the road but he tells Bilbo that he will hide most of his coin on his own person in different places with only one obvious coin purse in case he is robbed. Bilbo frets over this to the point that Thorin assures him he is excellent with his sword, which only serves to make Bilbo fret more and have to take a spot of brandy with his dinner.

He has been busy the last two days baking and cooking. Thorin can tolerate about five meals a day, all large, but Bilbo has insisted on trying to feed him seven, which makes Thorin laugh and look a little green at the same time. But beyond his meals, Bilbo has prepared him rather a lot of food to take with him on his travels; enough so that they may last the nearly three weeks it will take Thorin to get back home.

He has scones of different varieties, mince pies, many different types of cookies, hardy packages of nuts, raisins and dried berries. It takes another full pack for it all and Thorin has already secured himself a pony, which he had not had on his way down from the mountains.

Bilbo hopes it will keep him safer and though he feels sick with worry and many other things, he tries to put on a brave face for Thorin. It would be cruel to send him off knowing Bilbo is so beside himself.

He loves Thorin and he must watch him go and he has never felt more dreadful in his life, so he suspects putting on a brave face _is_ the bravest thing that he has ever done.

Once dinner has been had, Thorin brings all of his belongings out from his room and sets them down near the front door. He checks and rechecks everything and leans his sword and bow against the wall, looking satisfied.

Bilbo watches him from the doorway of his study until he is afraid he will be noticed and goes into the sitting room, sitting in his armchair and lighting his pipe. He hopes that the leaf will calm his nerves and frowns at his hands as they tremble badly enough to where he has a difficult time holding his pipe steady.

“Are you well?”

Bilbo looks up, lowering his arm to rest on the chair, trying to hide his tremors, and nods. “Quite,” he says, smiling a little as Thorin walks into the sitting room. Thorin merely stares at him and Bilbo sighs. “I’m a bit nervous about you being on the road but I’m alright. I’ll worry until I get your letter that you’ve arrived safely home. I will get that letter, won’t I?”

Thorin smiles. “Aye, as I’ve told you,” he says, sitting down across from Bilbo. “You must trust me, Bilbo. I will not leave you in the dark. I am eager enough to write the letter myself, as it will mean I am safely home. I’ve traveled great distances in my time but it is still a worry.”

Bilbo sighs, fingering his pipe. “I’m sure. I’ll pray to the Valar that it goes smoothly for you, Thorin,” he says. He lifts his pipe and cannot really hold it and curses, dumping the ashes into the fire in a fit of irritation.

There is a hand laid across his suddenly and he looks up to see that Thorin has leant forward, watching him with concern.

“It will be fine,” Thorin says quietly and there is something infinitely soft in his expression. “I will make it home and it will be a comfortable ride, thanks to you. Do not worry so, Bilbo.”

Bilbo feels tears gather in his eyes suddenly and lowers them, looking at Thorin’s hand over his own and blinking his eyes quickly, hoping Thorin doesn’t notice. “I’m sure it will be,” he says, his voice shakier than he’d like. “I’m very happy for you, Thorin. For your time in the Shire and the fact that you’ll be seeing your family soon.”

“Aye. I am eager to see how Fili and Kili have grown,” Thorin says, a smile in his voice. “The first purchases I make will to be to get them clothes fit enough for the winter. I will not watch them suffer the cold again.”

Bilbo looks up when his tears have subsided and smiles. “You are a wonderful uncle,” he says, then chuckles when Thorin lowers his eyes. His hand is still over Bilbo’s and it seems neither of them are too keen on moving. “I’ve never asked, but, ah… do you leave the mountain every winter to look for work?”

Thorin hesitates, then shakes his head. “Depending on how the spring and summer have gone, no, but sometimes I must. I normally am able to find work in the towns of Men as a blacksmith but the harsh winter of last year prevented most from being able to pay this year. I am hoping that does not happen again,” he says. “I hope that I will not be separated from my family.”

It cuts through Bilbo so suddenly and with so much sharpness that his breath is stolen away from him. Of course Thorin does not like being separated from his family… of course he would not think of coming to the Shire next fall. Bilbo should have known and feels foolish for the thought that he might offer his home again. Thorin does not want that; he wants work in his mountain so he never has to leave or lower himself to different standards.

He wants to be home, nothing more.

Bilbo nods, a little dazed. “Of course,” he says quietly, feeling very far away. “I, ah… I hope the next year goes well for you, Thorin. For you and your family.” He stands abruptly and sets his pipe on the mantel. “Excuse me, I have to use the washroom.”

He flees from the sitting room and heads down the hall, making it to his washroom and shutting the door behind himself. He leans against the wall and closes his eyes, breathing shallowly, feeling sick and trying not to lose his dinner.

If this is love, he does not want it.

Bilbo focuses on his breathing and trying not to cry or be sick. It takes a while but he eventually composes himself and thinks about forcing one last meal on Thorin for the day. Making food will help him as it always does and if Thorin declines eating, he can always pack it away for himself for later.

He opens the washroom door and steps into the hall, then blinks. Thorin is standing across the way, leaning against the wall, and he looks up when Bilbo steps out.

“Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry, did you need the washroom?” Bilbo asks, motioning behind himself.

Thorin stays quiet for a moment, then takes two steps forward and leans down. For a shocking moment Bilbo thinks he is about to be kissed but then Thorin wraps him up in bruising embrace and buries his pointy nose against his neck.

“I will miss you, Bilbo, think nothing else,” he says quietly, his deep voice rough. “You are _buhel._ Friend of all friends.”

Bilbo blinks a few times, then hesitantly wraps his arms back around Thorin. Once he has, he squeezes his eyes shut and holds Thorin tight, tears making a bid for escape once more. He ignores them but doesn’t quite trust his voice to not betray him and says nothing for a time.

When they do eventually pull away from each other, Thorin keeps a hold of Bilbo’s arms and stares down at him with a soft, gentle look in his eyes and a glorious smile on his lips.

 _“Buhel,”_ Bilbo repeats, sure he has butchered the pronunciation. Given Thorin’s wide grin, he is positive he has. He smiles sheepishly. _“Buhel,”_ he tries again, nodding. “Friend of all friends. You are certainly mine, Thorin. Thank you for all you’ve done for me, which is rather a lot, you know.”

Thorin leans in and presses his forehead to Bilbo’s, closing his eyes. “As you have done for me,” he says quietly. “We will write each other. Our friendship shall not be forgotten. _You_ will not be forgotten.”

Bilbo sniffs and nods, knowing he would not be able to meet Thorin’s eye now. “Good,” he says hoarsely. “Very good. Thank you, Thorin.” He doesn’t quite know how long he is supposed to stay with his forehead against Thorin’s but eventually he pulls back and looks up at bright, shining blue eyes, and feels his breath stutter.

Thorin is unspeakably beautiful in the low light of the hall and Bilbo wishes for nothing more than to kiss him, to beg him to stay, but he won’t. Instead he rocks up on his toes and pats Thorin’s arm.

“May I make you supper?”

Thorin chuckles and nods. “Very well. But a light one or I will not be able to leave come the morning,” he teases.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Bilbo says, feeling quite the opposite.

They head to the kitchen together and make a late supper of chicken breasts with rosemary and thyme, steamed vegetables and, unsurprisingly, quite a lot of fried potatoes.

There is conversation to be had and it’s not awkward like Bilbo feared it would be. It is easy and flows exceptionally well, as it always has, and he tries to forget that Thorin will not be there tomorrow night but can’t quite convince himself to.

When they are done eating, they share an ale together and sit outside on the smoking bench to watch the stars.

Bilbo holds in his tears. He holds them in throughout their last evening together, he holds them in when he goes to sleep that night, he holds them in as he makes one last meal for Thorin in the morning. He holds them in even while he helps Thorin pack up his pony and ensures that he has not forgotten anything and hugs him and makes a plea to the Valar that they will keep him safe.

He holds his tears in as he watches Thorin mount his pony and he holds them in as he watches him disappear down the hill, then out of Hobbiton.

Bilbo holds them in until he steps inside his smial and it is too quiet and too lonely. Then he sinks to the floor and lets his tears run free.

——  
  
Life continues on, whether Bilbo would like for it to or not.

His first day by himself is harder than he imagined it could be and it creeps slowly by, or so it seems, because soon enough and it has been a week since Thorin left. The days are cooling considerably and there are a few early winter rains, which make Bilbo uneasy, as they come down from the North, and he suspects Thorin has to travel through them. He can only hope and pray and wait.

Yuletide celebrations begin after Thorin has been gone two weeks and the first of the winter gatherings is happening shortly. Bilbo thinks that he will go, is prepared, and buys what he needs to bake different treats but when the day comes he cannot stomach it and pretends he’s ill to avoid going. His friends and family leave him quite a lot of food, enough for him and Thorin, he thinks, but Thorin is not there and he must throw away most of it in the end.

He becomes unsociable, in Drogo’s words, and cannot find it in himself to be any better. His heart feels like a constant desolate wasteland and he cannot see any peace or happiness in social visits. They are too tiresome and he can hardly find it in himself to smile, let alone pretend to be glad, so it is best if he just stays away.

There is a hole where Thorin once was and Bilbo did not realize how big of a space he occupied in his heart until he was gone.

Now he is left hollow and alone but cannot come to regret meeting Thorin, as he thought he might. He loves him still, has a feeling he always will, and despite the pain, he will think of him fondly.

A Yule festival comes and it is a quiet affair spent alone with the occasional visits from friends and family. They are clearly worried for him and he suspects they have reason to be, as he can barely get himself into the bath most days. He thinks of how he would have liked to take a bath with Thorin and admonishes himself for it but these thoughts keep coming unbidden and sometimes the thought of what might have been, had they met in a different life, is all he has.

And then one day, while awaiting the mail as he does every day, growing more concerned the longer he does not hear from Thorin, there is a tapping sound coming from down the hall.

Bilbo looks up from where he is preparing a cup of tea and blinks a few times. The tapping continues and he frowns; it sounds as if it’s coming from his study and he hasn’t any idea what it could be. With some caution, he leaves his kitchen and heads down to the study, peering hesitantly around the corner.

There is a black shadow by the window and he jumps, clutching at his chest, until he realizes it is a bird. And all at once he remembers that Thorin spoke of ravens used for communication and he makes a gutted noise, rushing forward into the room and to the window. He opens it and the great bird, bigger than any raven he has ever seen, flies inside, finding its way to the back of his chair.

It ruffles its feathers and turns beady eyes on Bilbo, seeming to assess him, and he stares back at it, at a loss.

“Erm. Do you have a message for me?” he asks, feeling foolish.

The raven doesn’t move for a moment, then suddenly sticks out its leg, and Bilbo notices there is a large metal scroll stuck onto it. He reaches out, a bit concerned for his fingers, as that beak is rather wide and sharp but the raven lets him unclasp the container from its leg and pull out the letter.

Bilbo opens it and blinks to find two pieces of parchment paper. The first is a scrawl he recognizes from some of Thorin’s letters he had sent with the post to his family and he feels an immense amount of relief, his shoulders sagging for it. He moves to his chair and sits down, beginning to read the short letter.

_Dearest Bilbo,_

_I have made it safely home. The going was rough, as it rained most of the way, but your baked goods survived the journey and kept me well fed. There are some scones left and Fili and Kili have enjoyed them despite their weeks on the road. Dis is doing well and she is glad to see me home. I am tired after my journey but I wished to inform you of my safe arrival. I will write you more soon. Send a reply back with the raven, if you so wish._

_Thorin_

Bilbo stares, very hard, at the word _dearest_ written in such angular, pretty handwriting. His heart is racing and his fingertips feel light and he is unbelievably relieved and glad to know Thorin is home. Quickly, he turns the letter over and looks at the second piece of parchment, blinking at the unfamiliar writing.

_To Master Bilbo Baggins,_

_I imagine I could say thank you a thousand times and yet it would not be enough. Thorin wrote to me during his time with you and I am displeased I did not find time to write to you before. He told me of how you took him in, fed him, and allowed him to stay with no expectations in return. Now that he is home and I have seen just how healthy he is and how much coin he has brought to us, my gratitude for your graciousness cannot be said in words._

_My sons will not know a hard winter this year and for that I am thankful and indebted to you. I confess that I was worried of my brother’s time in the Shire, a place we did not know, but he has assured me of its peaceful nature and good folk. He speaks to me of bountiful meals and an exceptional host and I am happy to see his smile, which is a rare thing, though I am not sure you would believe me with how often he has smiled while speaking of you._

_I wish to write more but Thorin will not let me. He is eager to inform you he is home. I will write you again, Master Baggins, and I would consider myself honored if you would write me as well._

_Dis, daughter of Thrain_

Bilbo reads the letter through a second time, then simply stares down at the yellowing parchment, his lips pursed. His eyes sting and he is afraid that he might cry but he inhales and tries to get a hold of himself.

He must write Thorin back immediately he knows, so his nerves will not be set aflame and so he can drown himself in ale once he is finished. He feels he must celebrate Thorin’s return, no matter how much it makes his heart ache to know that he is so far away and will not be returning.

He writes two letters, both long, but when he tries to give them to the raven, it snaps at his hands and ruffles its feathers, staying where its at. Bilbo has a thought that it might be exhausted from its journey and goes into the kitchen to find it some sausage and bacon bits as well as a dish of water. When he goes back into the study, the raven caws and inhales the food and water in short order before it flies off through his smial.

He finds it perched on the armrest of his chair in front of the fire and can’t really blame it. Instead, he fetches himself tea rather than ale and sits with it, daring to stroke its inky black feathers, startled and pleased when the bird allows it. He wonders if it is Thorin’s personal raven and cannot help but sniffle at the thought of having something of Thorin’s still with him.

It is not until the morning that the raven seems ready to leave and allows Bilbo to secure the parchment in its small container to its leg. He sends it off after another meal of meaty bits, then goes about his day, more at ease than he has been since Thorin left.

It is not until nearly a month later that the raven returns with more letters and it begins the start of a new friendship with Dis and a continued friendship with Thorin. He will take all that he can get, he knows, despite the pain of it, and is just glad that Thorin has not forgotten him.

Winter storms on and there are few letters but eventually the skies break and spring comes back, bringing with it dewy buds of grass and happy, fat flowers. It smells fresh and ripe and Bilbo begins to feel… better. He can breathe easier and his heart does not ache so much and he is able to sleep more soundly. He still misses Thorin fiercely and never writes to ask him to visit again but life begins to open to him and he dives in.

He must, if he is to find happiness.

Spring ebbs into summer and fruits and berries are grown plentiful. Bilbo bakes and gifts his neighbors and family with sweet treats and quite a lot of potatoes and answers their inquiries about Thorin. They all seem glad that he is doing well in his mountain though they do hint that Bilbo should invite him but he knows that he can’t.

He cannot take Thorin away from home.

It still does not stop his heart from racing whenever there is a knock at the door come the end of summer. When September comes through with its warm days and the end of the blackberry harvests, Bilbo peers down the hill and wonders if he will see a dwarf come to Bag End.

He knows that these thoughts only hurt him but he cannot help it; it has been a year since he met Thorin and letters are becoming more infrequent as time goes on. Thorin says that he has work as a blacksmith but Bilbo wonders if it is enough - if it will see him through a winter without having to resort to anything demeaning, be that taking less pay in towns of Men or otherwise, though he doesn’t think Thorin will ever be pushed into selling himself again. He hopes that Thorin would turn up in the Shire before he could possibly think of that.

But he will never see Thorin again and he must keep reminding himself of that as the days go on.

It is a glorious end to the summer and the birds are singing and Bilbo has his windows open to allow cool breezes through Bag End. He is enjoying the scent of dahlias and pineapple lilies as he sits in his sitting room with his journals on his lap.

He got tired of hunching over his desk and his book is near completion; he is reading through it and his notes before he begins a final draft. He promises to send it to Thorin and cannot help but worry over if he will like it or not. Thorin seemed to enjoy reading when he was not so tired from his long days but Bilbo doesn’t know if his grand adventure will be interesting to a dwarf.

He scratches out a word, then grumbles, writing it back in, before he blindly reaches out for his tea cup and takes a sip. It is cooling and he will have to get up to make a second pot but he is absorbed.

That is why when there are three heavy knocks on his door, he nearly spills his tea and curses vehemently. He glares some toward the hall, then huffs, looking down at his journal, debating pretending he isn’t at home. But that reminds him too much of his winter days and he sets everything aside, standing and brushing his rumpled waistcoat flat.

He hurries down the hall and to the door, opening it and looking up to greet the newcomer. It is no hobbit.

A dwarf.

The most handsome dwarf he has ever had the privilege of seeing.

Bilbo stares and opens his mouth, then shuts it, blinking his eyes to try and see if Thorin will disappear. But he doesn’t. He remains solid and he is smiling at Bilbo, holding a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

“They are not wax flowers but I have been told morning glory, sunflowers and dahlias make for a fine message,” Thorin says, stepping closer and extending the flowers to Bilbo.

Bilbo looks down at them, reaching out and taking them on instinct, inhaling their luscious scent before he looks back up at Thorin.

“You’re here,” he says, quite unable to believe it.

“I am,” Thorin says and smiles more widely. “May I make you a flower crown? I am out of practice but with a little help, I think I can accomplish it.”

Bilbo stares at his forget-me-not blue eyes and feels his heart thundering. He holds the flowers closer to his chest and swallows, trying to think past Thorin. But he cannot. Because Thorin is there and he means to be and he is giving Bilbo a bouquet of flowers that means love.

Staying true to love, to commitment, unwavering adoration, to cherish love when it is in reach.

“Bilbo,” Thorin murmurs and lifts his hand, his finger grazing Bilbo’s cheek.

He is startled to find that his eyes have grown wet and a tear has escaped without his permission. He starts, blinking his eyes clear, and looks at Thorin.

“I’ve rather missed you,” he says, his voice froggy.

“And I have missed you,” Thorin says, something achingly soft in his expression. “Forgive me for not coming sooner but I had to ensure my family will see through this winter with no hardships.”

Bilbo blinks a few more times and raises his eyebrows, thinking. “You… you plan to stay through the winter, do you?” he asks, his voice high in pitch.

Thorin looks sheepish. “If… if I am welcome, of course,” he says and shuffles a bit closer. “Am I?”

Bilbo lets out a gusty sigh, turning and setting the flowers down on the stool near the door. When he looks back at Thorin, he sniffs. “You’re welcome but only if you look at my plumbing first,” he says, then smiles. “And kiss me, as I have been waiting a long time for you to.”

Thorin grins and lifts his hands, resting both of them on Bilbo’s cheeks. “Aye, I can do that,” he says and leans in.  
  
And it is a kiss Bilbo will write stories about and it is a life that deserves to be told and a love that remains true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got a lot more fluffy than I originally expected it to. I really hope you enjoyed it, and please leave kudos if you have, and don't forget to comment! They mean the world to me! Thank you. :)
> 
>  [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vtforpedro)
> 
> Edit: I commissioned the amazingly talented and Very Awesome Person (VAP) [rutobuka](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com) for a scene from the fic! Check it out,
> 
> [Here](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/post/162945053674/a-commissioned-piece-for-vtforpedros-the-nature)
> 
>  
> 
> Edit2: THE FIC GOT FANART! It's amazing and perfect and I ugly cried for hours. Check it out,
> 
> [Here](http://hilfedraws.tumblr.com/post/168517197950/i-really-enjoyed-vtforpedros-fic-the-nature-of-a)


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